The Warlords of Nin (3 page)

He had not finished speaking when four men sprang out of the nearest thicket and grabbed the horses' bridles. Two of the men were armed with spears and the others with short swords. All appeared very frightened, their faces grim with worry and pale from fear.

It was the look upon these sorry faces that made Quentin hold his hand. “Stay, Toli! We need not fear these men, I think.” Quentin spoke loudly and calmly so that their would-be attackers would know that they intended no harm.

There was a rustle in the thicket, and another man stepped out, or rather fell, into the road. Quentin recognized the thin, careworn face of the village counselor.

“Good morning, Counselor. Is this the way you treat strangers nowadays? Or perhaps you wished to invite us to breakfast.”

The thin, bald man blinked and rushed forward, squinting at the travelers with his one good eye.

“Quentin? Step back, men. It is the prince! Let them go!” Quentin smiled at the appellation. He was not the prince, but his legend had so grown among the simple people of Mensandor that he held that lofty position in their esteem. So they conferred upon him the highest title they could presume; to them he was, quite simply, the prince.

“Yes, it is Quentin. But tell me, Milan, why this rude reception? And where are your townspeople? The village looks deserted.”

“I'm sorry, good sir. We meant you no harm.” The village chief looked heartbroken. He wrung his hands over each other as he spoke, as if he feared some fierce retribution. “It's just that . . . well, we cannot be too careful these days; there have been stories of evil deeds—we thought it best to post a watch on the road.”

“Robbers?” Quentin asked.

Milan ignored the question and asked one of his own. “You yourself have seen nothing?”

“No, nothing.”

Quentin shrugged and looked at Toli. Toli studied the faces of the men before them and remained silent.

“Well, perhaps our fears are unfounded. Will you stay with us?”

“No, not this time. If we may have the use of one of your excellent boats, we will put off directly. We are going to Askelon as quickly as we can.”

The town counselor fixed Quentin with a strange, knowing look and turned away. “Go on ahead and tell the town. The way is clear; there is nothing to fear,” he called to one of his men. Then to Quentin he added, “The boat is yours. You may take mine; it is the largest by far; my son will go with you.”

“We are grateful for your kindness,” said Quentin as they moved off together.

They passed the simple dwellings that crowded one another all along the path right down to the water's edge. Quentin saw an occasional fleeting face at a window or peering from a doorway, but by the time they reached the great wooden pier that served as a wharf for the town's fishing boats, most of Malmarby's citizens were going about their business as though nothing unusual had happened. Many followed them down to the pier, and many more hailed the regal travelers as they passed.

The boats of Malmarby were broad, boxy things—sturdy enough to withstand the anger of the harshest seas, which they never faced, since the bulky boats served but to ply the sheltered inlet from one end to the other along its length.

Milan's boat was more than adequate for their need, though the horses showed some trepidation at being led aboard such a strange-looking vessel.

With Milan's son, Rol, at the long stern oar, they waved themselves away from the throng on the pier. Rol's strong hands worked the oar, and soon they had entered a deeper channel, where a swift current pulled them along. They raised the small sail on its stubby mast and drifted smartly away.

“Where do you wish to land, my lords?” called Rol from his seat at the tiller.

“Anywhere you think best, as long as it is west of the Wall.” Quentin paused and regarded
the hardy youth, who had strong shoulders and a thick thatch of brown hair. He remembered when the good-natured young man had been a skinny little boy who ran alongside the horses whenever a traveler passed through the village—such as Quentin and Toli had often had occasion to do.

“What is it the village fears?” asked Quentin, stepping close to Rol. “What has come to pass since we have last come this way?”

The young man shrugged a muscled shoulder and continued working the oar. “I do not know. Stories, that is all. It does not take much to frighten such a small village.”

“What are these stories you speak of ? Why have they frightened everyone so badly?”

Toli stepped in to hear what Rol had to say.

“This spring some people came to us out of the Suthlands, saying they had been set upon by demons and their homes burned.”

“Demons do not burn homes,” remarked Toli.

Again the tentative shrug. “I do not know if they do or not; that is what the people said.”

“Hmmmm . . . that is strange. Did they say what these demons looked like?”

“They are giants. Fierce. Fire spewed from their mouths, and each one had ten arms with claws for hands.”

“Where did these demons come from? Did they say?”

“No one knew. Some said they came from beyond the sea. From beyond Gerfallon. Others said they saw the sign of the Wolf Star on their foreheads. Maybe they came down from the sky.”

“This is an odd tale,” said Quentin to Toli as they drew aside.

“Why would anyone burn a village of peasants in the Suthlands?” Toli asked. “There is little enough there, and nothing to be gained by such doings.”

“I cannot guess. The realm is at peace these past ten years. We will tell the king about this; they may have heard something in Askelon.”

Rol proved an able seaman, and the day's end found them close to their destination. A faint mist gathered on the water at the shoreline and pushed out into the inlet. Through the gray mist they saw the dark plane of the Great Wall jutting out into the deep water as the shadows lengthened upon the land.

Rol steered the boat around the Wall's looming edge and made for the rocky strand. No one spoke as they passed by the imposing shape. The steady slap and dip of Rol's long oar was the only sound that broke the stillness of the water.

Quentin watched the mist curling around the base of the Wall and thought it made the Wall appear to be floating on a foundation of billowing clouds, while the deepening sky above seemed to grow hard and solid as stone as it darkened with the twilight. He started when he heard a hollow knock and felt the slight jolt that told him they had touched shore.

“Will you stay with us tonight, Rol? We will camp a little way along the trail, up there.” Quentin pointed to a tree-lined rise that bordered the shore. “Toli will have a fire going in no time, and we will have some hot food.”

“Thank you, my lord. I am tired—and hungry, too. I cannot say which I am the more.”

“Well, you have done us a great service, and it shall be rewarded. Here,”—Quentin reached into the soft leather pouch that hung at his belt—“a gold ducat for your trouble, and one for your kindness.”

Rol bowed low as he thrust out his callused hand. “Sir, it is too much. I cannot accept so much.” He fingered the gold coins and handed them back to Quentin.

“No, you have earned them both, and our praise besides. Keep them and say no more about it. But, look! Toli is already making camp. Let us hurry and join him, or we may be too late for our supper.”

The three reclined around the fire and talked as the stars came out in the immense black vault of the heavens. Below them on the strand, the water lapped gently against the smooth, round rocks, and above them, in the trees, a nightbird called to its mate. Tall pines stood over them, and the air smelled of fresh wind and balsam.

Quentin drifted easily to sleep, nodding in his place, until he at last bade his companions good night and rolled himself in his cloak. Toli added another log to the fire and got up to check the horses before he himself turned in. Rol already slept soundly, judging from the slow, even rhythm of his breathing.

Toli stretched and lifted his eyes to the night sky, now sparkling with tiny lights. As he scanned the heavens, his eye caught a curious sight. He stood for a moment, contemplating what he saw, and then he turned and crept softly toward Quentin.

“Kenta . . .” He nudged his sleeping friend gently. “Kenta, I want you to see something.”

Quentin turned and sat up. He peered intently into Toli's face, lit on one side by the firelight. He could not read the expression there.

“What is it? Have you at last seen the White Stag?”

“No, nothing so important.” Toli dismissed the jest. “I thought you might want to see this.” He led Quentin a short space away from the fire and the overhanging boughs of the trees.

“Look to the east . . . there just above the Wall. Do you see it?”

“A star? Yes, I see it—that very bright star.”

“See how it shines. Do you think it odd?”

“It is the Wolf Star. But you are right; it does have a different look tonight. What do you make of it?”

Toli gazed upward at the brilliant star and at last turned away, saying, “I do not know what to make of it. I only wanted you to see it, so that we may be agreed about it.”

Quentin was not satisfied with this answer. Toli, who was evidently withholding something, declined to speak further. There was no use in pushing the matter further until the Jher was ready to say more. Whatever was tumbling around in that head, thought Quentin, would come out sooner or later, but only when Toli desired it so. He would wait. Quentin sighed and rolled himself once more in his cloak and fell to sleep.

3

F
rom the sound of the gurgling crash that filled the rock-rimmed canyon, the Arvin's first cataract lay just ahead. Blazer and Riv picked their way among the loose stones on the canyon floor as Quentin and Toli scanned the soaring cliffs above. All around them towered jagged spires of rock. They moved carefully, as through a giant's petrified forest.

They passed between two large outcroppings of dull brown stone upon which rested a great slab forming the posts and lintel of an enormous doorway. “Azrael's Gate,” muttered Quentin as they passed quickly through, and then, brightening considerably, “Look! Eskevar's road.” He pointed across the Arvin's racing headwaters to the other side, where the road began.

Without hesitation Quentin urged his steed forward into the frigid water. The swift stream splashed around the horse's legs and wet his rider to the knees. Quentin found the icy tingle the perfect tonic to banish the oppressive foreboding that had settled upon him—as it always did—when he rode through the eerie canyon that ended in Azrael's Gate. Now, with that behind and the clear, wide road ahead, his spirits suddenly lifted.

“It won't be long now,” he called over his shoulder to Toli, just then splashing into the course. “Tomorrow night we will dine with Durwin, and the following will see us at the Dragon King's table.”

“I thought you were the one for haste,” replied Toli. “We can do better than that!” At these words he slapped Riv over the shoulders with the reins and leaned into the saddle. The horse spurted ahead, sending torrents of icy water up into the air as he surged past Quentin and clattered up out of the stream and struck for the road.

“A challenge!” shouted Quentin at Toli's retreating figure. He snapped Blazer's reins as they clambered out of the water and dashed after Toli in chase.

High in the lonely foothills,
the sound of their race echoed and reechoed from one blank stone face to another. Their jubilant cries sang through the rills and crevices, and rang in rock hollows and caves. The horses' hooves struck sparks from the stone paving as they flew.

At last, exhausted and out of breath, the two trotted to a halt upon a ridge. Below them the foothills dropped away in gentle arcs, fading from violet to blue in the hazy distance. Away to the south stood the lofty, snow-wrapped crags of the Fiskills, where endless winds howled among the sharp peaks.

“Ah!” sighed Quentin as he drew a deep breath. “Such a sight! It is a beautiful land, is it not?”

“It is that and more indeed. My people have a word for the land—I do not think I have ever told you: Allallira.”

“No, I have never heard it. What does it mean?”

“I cannot be precise—there is no exact meaning in your tongue. But it means something like ‘the land of flowing peace.'”

“Allallira, I like that; it fits.” They started down together. “And it certainly is peaceful. Look out across those valleys. These years have been good ones. The land has produced full measure. The people are content. I cannot think but that the god has blessed the realm in recompense for the troubled times when Eskevar was away from his throne.”

“Yes, these have been good years. Golden times. I hope we will see them endure.”

Quentin cast a sideways glance at his companion. Toli's eyes were focused on some distant horizon. He appeared as if in a trance. Quentin did not want to break the happy mood, so did not pursue the matter further. They continued down the slope without speaking.

The next day dawned fair and bright, warmed by soft winds from the west. The travelers were already well on their way when the sun popped over Erlemros, the Fiskills' highest peak. The road made the going easy, and they pushed at a steady pace, reaching the lowlands by midday.

They ate a hasty meal among moss-covered stones in the shade of an ancient oak and started again on their way; they had not traveled far when Toli said, “Along the road, yonder. We have some company.”

Quentin raised his eyes and saw very faintly, and very far away, what appeared to be a group of travelers coming toward them on foot. There was just a glimpse, and then a bend in the road took them from Quentin's sight.

“Merchants, perhaps?” Quentin wondered aloud. Often traders who sold their wares from town to town banded together in traveling companies for mutual entertainment and protection. “I would like to buy a trinket for Bria.”