Shrugging, he continued on his way, failing to notice the shadow that crossed the sky, interrupting the beams of sunlight that spilled through the leafy canopy. Only when the troll king came to a clearing did he see the massive serpentine shape, the mighty wings pulsing down to send a gust of wind blasting between the trunks. Blinking the dust from his eyes, Awfulbark recognized Natac, the great general already dismounted from the dragon and striding toward him.
The king tried to think. He judged it unlikely that the man was coming to take back his sword; after all, Natac had bestowed it with great ceremony, in thanks for the troll’s aid during the Battle of Sharnhome. There was a chance, a good chance, that he was returning now to ask Awfulbark’s assistance in some undoubtedly unpleasant and arduous task. This, thought the monarch of the New Forest, was a much more likely prospect. He considered fleeing, knowing that he had a very poor record of standing up to Natac’s requests for assistance.
But there was a third possibility, and this kept him rooted in place: perhaps the man was coming to give him another gift. Of course, he couldn’t see any likely-looking parcels, either on the man or his dragon, but hope was strong in the troll king, and so he clutched his sword and waited for Natac to reach the shade of the trees.
“Greetings, O King,” said the man, making a formal bow. “I hope that life in the New Forest continues to suit you.”
“Well, okay enough,” said Awfulbark grudgingly. “Could wish for some good Udderthud caterpillars though, spice up these soft apples.”
“Indeed. The foods we are raised with, those are the finest tastes,” Natac acknowledged sympathetically. “How I longed for the taste of tart chocolate and chilis when I first arrived here.”
The troll didn’t know what the man was talking about but pretended to nod in understanding. It was then that Natac sprang his trap.
“I need your help,” he said.
Awfulbark blinked and, with longing, thought of the winding forest trail, the route into shadow and obscurity that he had considered moments earlier, before it was too late. Now, there was no way he could refuse the man, not when the trolls were needed. It had never happened before he had met Natac and the other warrior, Jubal. Never had there been a time when the trolls were needed for something. The first time it had happened, Awfulbark had tried to resist. But now, there was no use.
“What we do now?” he asked.
“There is going to be another war,” Natac said. “I need you to bring your trolls, everyone who is strong enough to fight, to the shore of the Blue Coral Sea.”
2
The Order of the Druids
Yea, though I walk through the valley
Of the shadow of death,
I shall fear no evil,
For Thou art with me.
Cholera came to Zanzibar in the spring, and by the middle of the sweltering summer Shandira had closed the eyes of countless babies, praying reverently over each shriveled little corpse. When she was not in the crowded sick house, she helped to burn the lifeless bodies of fever-parched adults, trying to stem the tide of the plague. She worked tirelessly, her strength an inspiration to everyone who saw her, but it was perhaps inevitable that at last the sickness would strike her, as well.
Even as the chills racked her long limbs and the sweat beaded upon her ebony skin, she continued her work, always wearing the stained robe that marked her as a Sister of Mercy. When at last she collapsed, she was given a pallet in her cell, and Father Ferdinand himself came to visit her. Solemnly he administered the last rites, and then he lingered for a moment, his hand, tender despite heavy calluses, gently holding her sticklike fingers.
“I remember when you first came to us,” he said in his stilted Swahili, his eyes filling with tears. “A wide- eyed girl from the bush. You had the Holy Spirit in you then, my child, and your life has been a testament to that glory. I know that your reward shall be everlasting.”
His words were a comfort to her in the days that followed, as she grew weaker. She could not eat, and water was little comfort. A fire seemed to burn within her, growing hotter with each passing night, until at last, inevitably, her very life was consumed.
It was then that Shandira’s story began.
“My Holy Virgin Mother!” cried the woman, dropping to her knees before Miradel, pressing her forehead to the floor.
“I am not your mother, nor blessed,” replied the druid, gently placing a hand on the smooth black shoulder. “But I hope you’ll consider me a friend.”
Shandira looked upward, her eyes wide as she stared past Miradel, into the verdancy of the garden. Fountains spumed softly, unseen but soothing, and pale sunlight filtered through the canopy of palm fronds as the sun descended toward Lighten. Slowly, the black woman lifted herself, kneeling proudly, then standing. Her cowl of tight, curly hair seemed immense to the druid, like the mane of a lion, and her naked physique of wiry muscle was a monument to physical perfection.
“Where am I?” she asked warily.
“You are in the garden of the Goddess Worldweaver,” replied Miradel, extending a hand, gently leading Shandira to a nearby bench of carved marble. “You have been brought here by the goddess, as a reward for your hard work in the world you call Earth.”
“But surely our Lord Jesus…?” The woman who had spent a lifetime as a Christian nun hesitated, looking around further. “Is it delirium?” She said wonderingly. “I have seen that madness many times-but it is always a thing of fever and nightmares. Now I feel at peace, whole again.”
She touched her flat, muscled stomach, felt the sinews of her thighs and the fullness of her breasts. “If this is delirium, may God forgive me-I welcome it!”
“It is not madness. It is real, and you have been brought here not only as reward but also because you are needed. Our world is in danger, and you… you and all the other women who come to the Fourth Circle now… you must help us.”
“What do you ask of me?” Shandira asked, her dark eyes level and shrewd as she met the druid’s gaze.
Miradel knew that the answer to this question would shock, even appall, the newcomer who, in her previous life, had steadfastly adhered to her vow of chastity. The druid demurred. “Let me show you the Grove,” she said. “There you will learn the truth.”
“There’s the bay,” Natac said, slapping the great wyrm on the shoulder. Regillix Avatar had already spotted the crowded harbor, and now he tucked his wings slightly to drop them through a shallow dive. Wind howled past Natac’s face, streaming his black hair behind him and bringing tears to his eyes until he ducked his face behind one of the dragon’s bony neck plates.
Sheltered from the buffeting air as the great serpent picked up speed, the man looked past the chestnut scales of the mighty shoulder. Though his narrow vantage revealed only a fraction of the druid boats below, he could not help but take heart from the extent of the fleet that had gathered to meet the armada of Karlath-Fayd. More than a hundred slender hulls clustered on the placid water just within his narrow frame of view-and that was only a small fraction of Roland Boatwright’s flotilla.
A few minutes later the dragon pulled up, then bounced to a landing on the grassy bluff that overlooked this natural, deep-water inlet on the wilds of the metal coast. Natac slid from his perch and walked to the edge of the steep slope. Fifty feet below, a strand of beach encircled a stretch of placid water protected by a range of rugged hills to the woodward side, and a rocky breakwater, constructed by druids, that arched out to close off the sea
