water level. Rocks poked from the bed where once-deep waters had flowed unbroken. The shores were muddy and flat, overgrown with cattails and reeds. The ground in both directions rose only gradually: toward the coastal hills in the direction of metal; while centerward the land opened on a long, open highway leading to the Ringhills and Circle at Center.
Nevertheless, if his army was going to make a stand, it would have to be here.
Late in the long day, nearly forty-eight hours after the army had fallen back from the beach, he met the vanguards of the two elven columns. He led the elves to the two good fords, where the smoothly graveled riverbed spanned the distance between dry, open approaches. He was relieved to discover that most of the batteries had escaped the battle at the shore, and he had the centaurs quickly haul them into position for a vigorous defense of the two fords. Nearly half the wheeled weapons were placed at these two junctures. The rest he scattered along the length of the river, counting on the centaurs’ speed to bring them into position when the enemy, as he inevitably would, forced other crossings of the water.
“Go and find the trolls,” he ordered Horas of Gallowglen, who had returned to the general with confirmation of the great teleportation spell from Circle at Center. The faerie was accompanied by several dozen of his fellows, and Natac was grateful for the extra couriers and scouts. “Tell them to get to the river as quickly as possible. Also, can you return here and tell me how far they are? When I should expect them?”
“As you wish, General Natac. It is my honor!” replied the bold courier. He flew off with five comrades, while Natac addressed the others. “I need some of you to find the gnomes-any that survived the battle on the beaches. Get them heading this way if they can, or tell them to hide out until the Deathlord’s army has passed. The rest of you have to locate that army… get an idea of the strength and the locations of his columns.”
Quickly the winged messengers darted away, and the general had already turned to his next problem.
He had set the elves to work in parties of a score of diggers, striving to create ten circular bowls beside the river. These were to be filled with water and manually stirred to create the focal point for the teleportation. But though the elves found good spots to dig and quickly channeled trenches across the short distances between the riverbank and the circular waterholes, there was not enough water in the channel to carry more than a trickle into most of the crucial sites.
Natac found Tamarwind, worrying about that same problem. “There are lots of deep spots within a mile up- and downstream,” the general explained. “One thing we have is numbers; let’s send ten thousand elves out to fill their waterskins. We’ll get our waterholes that way.”
The elf agreed and set the troops to work. Hundreds of elves marched away, carrying empty water sacks, returning an hour later with those containers dripping full. Though the day was drawing to a close by the time the last of the holes was filled, the elves transported enough water for each of the ten pools to serve as a focus of the spell. As soon as the sun began to pull away, a dozen elves knelt at each basin and used makeshift paddles to start the water swirling.
Pacing along the length of the riverbank, trying to contain his agitation, Natac swung his eyes from one group to the next. It seemed as though he had been waiting forever, but it was only a couple of minutes before he saw the lights sparkling in the air, like miniwhirlwinds of fireflies that soon coalesced into druids, a pair of them arriving at each focus with the first casting.
Quickly, elves helped these new arrivals away, offering sips of water to help with the momentary disorientation that always followed the teleport. A few minutes later, the second group arrived, with subsequent castings-each performed by a new set of sages back in Circle at Center-bringing in the rest of the druids as the sun slowly rose toward full nightfall. Twenty druids arrived in each of the first four waves, but on the last group there were but eighteen; none materialized at the last waterhole along the line.
Juliay was one who arrived at the next basin. “What happened to Miradel and Shandira?” she asked, as Natac jogged up to investigate.
“Miradel was coming here?” he asked. “I thought she had work in the temple!”
Juliay shrugged. “So did I, but I saw her just before Darken. It seemed odd; Shandira is just a novice and wouldn’t be able to help with your plan in any event.”
Natac frowned, concerned.
“I presume she must have changed her mind at the last minute,” Juliay suggested hopefully. “In any event, ninety-eight of us are here. We can do what you need.”
“I know,” the general agreed. He turned his attention to the local problem, though he remained concerned about Miradel. What had she intended? And where was she?
Those answers would have to wait. He found Cillia, the matriarch of the druids, critically inspecting the low level of water in the river. She was a tall woman, sturdy of frame, with black hair flowing freely down the length of her back.
“It would help if we had some rain,” she said as soon as Natac came up to her. “This isn’t much to work with.”
“I know,” he agreed. “They picked the driest year in two decades for their invasion.”
The venerable druid leaned back to look at the sky. “There’s some evening mist rising up and a few clouds blocking out the stars. Let us see if we can do something to help. Any idea how much time we have?”
“The scouts report that the ghost armies will be here by the middle of the night,” Natac replied.
“Druids, gather to me!” shouted Cillia, and in ten minutes the members of her order had assembled from their focal basins along the riverbank. Natac went back to inspect the fords, so he didn’t hear what she said or see what the druids did.
He was just relieved when, an hour after Darken, it started to rain.
If there was one thing that made a dark night even more miserable, it was rain. Awfulbark reflected on this truth as he slogged through mud that seemed to clutch his feet with sucking mire every time he tried to take another step. He was following at the tail end of a long line of trolls, and it seemed that they were all doing their best to churn up the ground so as to make it virtually impassable for the king.
Cursing and muttering, Awfulbark simply kept going. Roodcleaver was right in front of him-for some inexplicable reason she had refused to leave his side during this inglorious retreat-and somewhere behind, not terribly far away, came the implacable legions of the ghost warriors.
Frequently he glanced behind him, certain they were closing the gap. It was impossible to see much of anything in the lightless night, further obscured by the rain spattering down in large drops. Aside from the eerie wails they had uttered in combat, the troll had heard no noise from the enemy, so he fully expected them to be moving in complete silence.
“Faster!” he shouted. “March faster!”
Awfulbark hoped that the faeries who had been guiding the front of the troll column were still there. They claimed to have come from Natac and were going to show them the way to the nearest ford across the Swansleep. The little flyers could be leading the trolls right off the edge of Riven Deep, for all he knew.
Lightning flashed, illuminating a hundred miserable trolls, their rough, barklike skin slick with rainwater, and then a crash of thunder split the night. The king cringed, whipping his sword around so hard that he buried it four inches deep into the trunk of a willow tree. Angrily he pulled it out, yanking it free just as another flash brightened the night.
They were back there, the ghostly pursuers, a hundred paces away and coming on in a dense column. As the lightning faded he was left with the image of a thousand spear points, raised above the rank of marching warriors. Those in the lead bore swords, and even as the darkness closed in again, they raised that terrifying yowl that struck chills into Awfulbark’s gut.
“Run!” he cried. “Run to the river!”
He lurched and lumbered along, pushing Roodcleaver impatiently, tripping over a troll who had sprawled in the trail. He cursed as he picked that fellow up and shoved him forward, carelessly piercing him with his sword in the process. The troll howled but found the strength to continue on.
Only then did Awfulbark think of the tree he had struck: a willow! Surely the river must be near!
In two more steps he was in the water, feeling the hard gravel of the ford under his feet. The rest of the trolls were crossing or scrambling out, gasping and panting, on the other side. He saw ghostly blue fires along the bank there and groaned at the knowledge that magic was being cast. Nevertheless, his terror of the pursuing horde was even more acute, and so he pushed through the last few steps, stumbled onto the riverbank, and threw his hands over his head as magic exploded behind him.
