Roland Boatwright and Sirien joined them on the crest, another pair of lovers finding themselves on the field of the last battle. “What can we do now?” the druid and shipbuilder asked.
“Fall back, I guess,” Tam said. “As far as Circle at Center if we have to. Until there’s no place left to retreat.”
“What’s that in the sky?” asked Sirien, the keen-eyed elfmaid. She pointed past the ghost warriors, toward the murky horizon in the direction that was neither metal nor wood.
Winged shapes were visible there, tiny specks weaving through the columns of smoke and dust. There were lots of them, wings beating unmistakably, coming this way.
“Reckon it’s more harpies, I suppose, Jubal said in resigned despair. “Spread the word. We’re not even safe up here. We’ve got another attack coming in. And these look like big ones.”
“Wait,” said Sirien, holding up a slender hand.
“Why?” asked the Virginian impatiently. “They’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“I know,” said the elfwoman, strangely unperturbed. “But look… look at them again.”
K ARKALD and Belynda hurried to keep up, Natac half carrying Miradel. At first, immediately following her teleport home, he had ordered her to lie down and rest, but she would have none of that. Instead, she had barked an order of her own.
“The temple-take me to the Goddess Worldweaver, now!”
So he offered her an arm and a shoulder, which she leaned upon gratefully. Weak as she was, she still managed to hurry them along, across the lakeside park to the marbled plaza and the great golden doors. She would not explain what she had learned on the Fifth Circle, but her lips were drawn in a tight line, and her face was ashen.
They burst through the door, scattering the acolytes in the outer chamber. Quickly they passed the exit to the old, unused Rockshaft, with its bolted iron door, pushing their way right into the sanctum with its massive loom and surrounding Tapestry.
Within, the goddess looked up from her weaving, then slowed the pace of her pedaling until the great machine came to a rest. With immense dignity she stood.
“I was not so certain that I would see you again,” she declared coldly. Her eyes were like ice, glittering, cold.
“But you do see me, and you will hear what I have learned,” Miradel declared. She had found her strength, stood without assistance, and glared icicles of her own.
“What is that?” The goddess stepped away from her loom.
“There is no Deathlord, is there? Karlath-Fayd does not exist, no more than the gods and goddesses of the Seventh Circle!” Miradel said quietly. “All of that is pretended. There is only you, and this game you have us play.”
“Do not trifle with me. I have moved armies across chasms, even between worlds. I could crush you with a wave of my hand.” She sneered contemptuously. “What might seem like a game to you is truth, reality, to me.”
“Me, trifle with you? Don’t be ridiculous-it is you who trifle with us!” snapped Miradel. She stood on her own, strong and steady now, and took a step forward, gesturing for Natac to come with her. She pointed to the threads, coming off the loom. “You think that is all fates, all futures, all pasts?” she asked him.
“It is the Tapestry of the Worldweaver,” he said, puzzled.
“It is merely a vain woman’s toy,” retorted the druid. “I want you to cut it, cut it off right now!”
“R EGILLIX Avatar must have made it home!” Tamarwind exclaimed. “Those aren’t harpies-they’re dragons!”
“I know,” Juliay said in a strangely peaceful tone. “Aren’t they the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen?”
The dragons filled the sky with wings and fire. They came from the direction that was neither metal nor wood. Diving with meteoric velocity, the wyrms swept across the top of the ghost warriors, belching massive clouds of flame, slaying with talon and fang. The serpents soared in their hundreds, maybe a thousand or more of them, spreading across the sky to span the whole of the ghost warriors’ horde. They ranged in colors from indigo so deep it was almost black to pale pastels of peach and green, shades varying even upon the same dragon, under-bellies always darker than backs.
They swooped and cavorted. The smaller serpents were nimble and quick, often circling and looping about the greater wyrms or racing low to puff orange fireballs, blossoms of flame that seared a dozen or a score of the attackers. They flew onward, driving their slender pinions, quickly soaring aloft again.
The greater wyrms were true lords of the battlefield. One dragon of emerald green, nearly as big as Regillix himself, landed in the midst of a throng of ghost warriors, incinerating a hundred with a massive exhalation of oily flame. The two broad wings came down, crushing more of the invaders, and as the serpent leaped into the air it raked another dozen with its trailing claws. More dragons swarmed along the length of the wall, and everywhere the attackers fell back, off the rampart and down through the gore-filled ditch.
The soldiers of Nayve emerged from their hiding places or ceased their panic-stricken flight. They whooped and cheered from the slopes and the crests of the Ringhills. Jubal and Juliay embraced, while Tamarwind shouted himself hoarse in exultation.
One giant serpent broke from the fight and winged closer. Tam quickly recognized Regillix Avatar as the lordly wyrm came to rest on the nearby hillside. He looked smug, curling up like a cat and grinning at Tamarwind and the others like a contented crocodile.
“I missed this place,” he allowed. “Did you know that there is no beef in all of Arcati? And I learned that I have developed quite a taste for cattle flesh.”
“Welcome back!” cried Tamarwind. “We’re rather glad to see you.”
“Everyone, except perhaps the cows,” Jubal allowed. “But we’re grateful for your epic flight, Lord Dragon, and for a very timely return.”
“The climb almost killed me,” Regillix admitted, scowling at the unpleasant memory. “But my people understood the danger. As you can see, they were more than willing to help. And we had no difficulty riding the Worldfall back to Nayve-the same route that carried me some fifty years ago.”
“Our last line had broken,” Tam acknowledged. “We faced certain defeat-until we saw you.”
“Elves of Nayve! Trolls and gnomes-men and women of all peoples!” Jubal shouted, waving his sword over his head, calling the routed defenders down from the heights. They came from every gulley and rise on the foreslope of the hills, still whooping, newly energized by the appearance of the dragons. They swarmed in small groups at first, quickly assembled into companies and regiments, charging to reclaim the wall that the ghost warriors had already abandoned to the dragons.
Tamarwind, grinning, charged down the hill with his elves, but not before he made a silent pledge to return to Belynda as soon as he could get away from here.
“Get away from that!” snapped the Goddess Worldweaver, her face blanching. “You don’t understand what you’re doing!”
“Perhaps not, but at last I understand you,” replied Miradel. She kept her eyes on the immortal woman as she gestured to Natac. “Cut it-cut the threads!”
“No!” The Worldweaver shrieked her command. She raised her hand, palm outward. “Impudent humans-I gave you life on Nayve, and I can take that life away!” Her face distorted into something unrecognizeable, an image of unrestrained fury and immortal power.
The ground heaved, and Miradel fell. A great section of arch swayed, granite cracking, loose rubble plummeting downward. Cracks rippled through the smooth marble floor, and more debris spattered from the damaged ceiling. Even amid the chaos Natac noticed that the surface under the loom and the walls where the Tapestry was strung remained intact. In that instant he knew that Miradel was right-and that her idea was their only chance.
Sword drawn, the Tlaxcalan lunged to obey the druid’s command but was forced back from the Tapestry when a great slab of marble smashed onto the floor before him. Pieces flew through the air, scratching his face, sending him staggering to one knee. Resolutely he stood again, planting his feet and bending his knees, trying to keep his balance.
A storm of wind arose, sending stinging shards into their eyes, against their skin. Despite his exertion, the
