“Two nights past.”
“And the spell worked,” said a dark-haired, diminutive druidess, inspecting Natac archly. “You have brought Nayve another warrior?”
“Warrior?” The word was a hoot of amusement, uttered by Fionn. “More like a boy, I should say. Owen, maybe she brought him here for you!”
“Watch your tongue, you Celtic fool!”
Fionn threw his head back and laughed heartily. Owen’s burly fist flew, smashing the open mouth. Natac saw teeth fly and watched the druidesses scamper out of the way as the two men were at it again, crashing to the ground, rolling back and forth with a barrage of smashing fists and jabbing knees. Miradel sighed, the younger women stood around wringing their hands, and blood spilled from both men.
“Druids brought them here, as well?” Natac asked. Miradel nodded. “For this?” he pressed.
“No-you will learn soon enough that we have no control over these men, once they are brought here. We tried to reason with them, but they have learned to do as they wish to.” She looked at him strangely, and he knew she was wondering if he would prove to be as intractable as the two burly men still rolling around on the ground.
In that instant he was embarrassed for his race, for his whole world. He would not give her cause for regret.
He picked up the staff that Owen had dropped in the first bout. “Warriors of Earth!” he cried out as the two rolled close. Plunging the end of the shaft between them, he used his knee as a fulcrum and pulled, easily levering the men apart. “Why are you fighting?” he asked.
“Why?” Owen blinked, speaking through puffed and bleeding lips. “Because-because it’s what we do! As well ask why we breathe, why we eat!”
“We figh’ ’cause his ances’ors s’ole the women of my ’ribe,” growled Fionn, his words mushing through the mouthful of broken teeth.
“Stole your women-and your land, too!” Owen retorted with a laugh. “Not that you Irish would know what to do with good land if you had it!”
‘Women and land-my people have fought for those things, as well,” Natac said conversationally. “But here-this place they call Nayve-it would seem that there are women and land enough for all warriors.”
Owen scowled, and squinted at Miradel. “She told you that ‘Nayve’ poppycock, eh? Don’t listen, boy-this is the warrior’s paradise, called Valhalla, and I’ve been here long enough to know that!” He turned to the short, dark-haired druidess. “Fetch us some wine, Fernie-I’m working up a thirst here.”
The woman quickly ran into the house as Natac settled himself on the ground, squatting sociably with the two hairy men.
“I know it’s Valhalla,” Owen continued, “because it’s what the priests told me to expect. I went straight from the battlefield, my blood and my guts running across the dirt, and into the arms of a beautiful woman. If that’s not a warrior’s reward, then I’m a Frenchman!”
“My priests had it wrong,” Fionn said. “They spoke of a journey to a place of darkness, eternal chill.”
“As I learned of Mictlan,” Natac agreed. He looked at Owen. “So you must have had very wise priests?”
“Lucky, more than wise, I’d say,” snorted the Viking. “They were wrong about plenty-my comrades and my enemies should have been here, but there was only me. And this red-haired Celt.”
“I was here for two hundred years before Owen showed up,” Fionn explained. Natac realized that one of the druids had done something to the Irishman’s mouth-he no longer bled, and in fact had a full set of clean, whole teeth. “How long ago, now?”
“Last count we were five hundred years together,” Owen said proudly. “And the sheep-buggering fool has still never learned to fight!”
“Why, you-”
“The pretty girls who greeted you here,” Natac said quickly, interrupting the budding contest. “Where are they now?”
Both men shrugged and looked at each other, somewhat sheepishly.
“I don’t know,” the Viking admitted.
“The druid who was there to welcome me-I never saw her again,” Fionn said.
“Do you know why?”
“Never asked,” shrugged Owen. “There were plenty of others to take her place.”
Natac sat back, thinking. His mind fixed on a picture of Yellow Hummingbird, of a young girl going to her death at the hands of false priests, to feed the will of nonexistent gods. Then he thought of another sacrifice, that made by Miradel when she had brought him here.
The two bearded warriors were busy sucking on the wineskins that Fernie had brought. Natac caught Miradel’s eye, and asked her the question again.
“Why?” he wondered, trying to see the answer in her eyes.
“Because I think there are things you can teach us,” she said, taking his young hand in her old fingers. “And these will be things that the people of Nayve have to learn.”
5
A Crumbling Cornerstone
First Circle:
Foundation’s footing, bedrock to worlds.
Anchors present, future’s bastion.
Karkald’s lungs strained for air and he could feel the weakness seeping into his legs and arms. The long, terrified run from the battery, the sight of Darann clutched by that hideous, silver-mawed Delver, now propelled him into a monstrous rage. Four of the Unmirrored already lay dead and bleeding on the floor.
But now he was nearly finished, and as more of the Dark Ones spilled into the den, he staggered backward, pulling Darann and himself against the wall. They faced a tight circle of attackers, and the sightless dwarves now stood shoulder to shoulder, presenting a solid front of whirling blades.
“I love you,” Darann said, touching Karkald on the arm.
He looked at her miserably, saw scratches and smudges on her face, fear and despair in her eyes. He knew that she was here on the watch station because of him-and he saw how that devotion would, in mere moments, get her killed.
“I’m sorry!” he cried. The wall of the den was behind them now, blocking further retreat, and the Delvers continued to close in.
“No!” she retorted furiously. “Don’t say that!” She picked up a coal poker from beside the burner and flailed the steel shaft at the nearest Delvers. “We’re going to fight!” The blackened spike clattered against dagger blades while Karkald stabbed with his spear, once more driving the tip through enemy armor, then twisting and pulling back to wrench the weapon free.
“Kill him! Bring the wench to me!” The leader, the one called Zystyl, shrieked his orders, and the ring of Unmirrored pressed closer.
Frantically Karkald looked around the den. Flames smoldered in the direction of the bedchamber, and in any event he knew there was no escape that way. The steel-jawed captain still shouted from the kitchen, while the main room was full of Delvers blocking the passage out to the portico.
Still, the latter seemed like the only chance.
Momentarily he missed his hatchet, which was still buried in the skull of a dead Delver. But he still had his knife and his spear. He tapped Darann on the shoulder, nodded his head once toward the door, and then hurled himself against the front line of Delvers.
Leading with his spear, he stabbed one of the attackers through the throat. That Delver fell and Karkald rushed into the gap in the line, thrusting with his long knife, driving the blade into the next of the Unmirrored. At the same time he felt a burning pain in his back as another of the Blind Ones turned to slash at the space that had been created. Hearing the clash, the rest of the Delvers closed in.
Karkald gasped as another whirling knife ripped through his thigh. He flailed and stabbed at the enemy all around, until he felt a firm push against his back. Darann was there, shoving hard, and then the two of them were through the ring of Delvers. Limping, clenching his teeth against the pain, the Seer now followed his wife into the entry passageway. He remembered the dozens of boats at the base of the pillar, knew that the island must be swarming with the Unmirrored-yet all he wanted now was to get out of the den.