The Warlords of Nin (34 page)

“I will do it!” he said at last, leaping up. “By the god's beard, I will do it!”

The suddenness of the outburst startled Quentin and brought Durwin's head up with a snap.

“What?” Durwin shook his gray beard. “Oh, Inchkeith, you startled me. I must have dozed off a little. It has been a long day. Forgive me.”

“I have thought the matter out most carefully; be assured of that,” said the master armorer. “I will go with you to seek the lanthanil, and I will make the sword. How can I refuse, eh?” The misshapen craftsman smiled, and Quentin saw the relentless energy of the man burst from that smile.

“It is the opportunity of a lifetime—of many lifetimes. If you are right and the mines can be found, I would pay any sum to work with lanthanil. You offer me the craftsman's greatest dream. Yes, by all the gods that may be, I will do it.”

“I knew we could count on you, Inchkeith. We will find the mines, I am certain. The prophecy is being fulfilled.” Durwin waved his hand toward Quentin.

“I care not for prophecy, nor whether Quentin here is this priest king you speak of. But I care that our realm is set upon by barbarians. By Orphe! That I do. And if this sword that I shall make can strike a blow against them, if it can turn the battle, then I will make a sword such as no man has ever seen. I will make the Zhaligkeer!”

Quentin listened to the two talking and said nothing. All evening he had listened, saying little. His restive mood was on him again, and this time he perceived its cause: his arm.

Durwin seemed to forget that Quentin, the one designated to play the most important part in raising a sword against the enemy, had a broken arm, and maybe worse. Secretly, Quentin suspected that it was worse, that his injured arm was more severely damaged than the broken bone. It had been a long time since he had felt any sensation in the arm at all; it seemed numb, dead.

He did not speak of his suspicion to anyone. Not even Durwin, on the night when his arm was reset and bound properly, knew that he felt nothing at all, for he had grimaced and moaned—mostly out of nervous fear—as if it had hurt him a great deal. There was something seriously wrong with his arm; he was forced to face it now when all the talk of swords and prophecy filled the night.

As he brooded upon this unhappy fact, the thought occurred to him that perhaps he was not the one after all—not the mighty priest king foretold in the legends. Perhaps the Most High had never intended for him to be the one; it was to be some other yet unknown.

Unexpectedly the thought sent a wave of relief through Quentin's frame. Yes, of course, that was it. One could
not very well wield the fabled sword without an arm to do so. The prophecy, if it were to remain true, pointed to another. Perhaps Eskevar was the one favored by the prophecy—he was king, after all. The old oracle's prophecy had said that a king must wield the sword. That settled it.

When at last they arose to take themselves off to their beds, Durwin came near to Quentin and said, “You were very quiet this night, my young man. Why?”

“Do we not have enough to trouble us, Durwin?”

“Aye, more than enough. But I perceived this to be a vexation of a different sort.” Inchkeith approached them now with a light burning brightly in a finely made lamp. Durwin accepted it and said, “We will find our own way, good sir. Thank you. You need trouble yourself no further on our account.”

“The trouble, sir, is just beginning!” Inchkeith laughed. “But I chose long ago on whose side I will stand. Get your rest, gentlemen. I will be ready to join you on your journey in the morning.”

“So it is. We will leave as soon as possible, but not until we have dined once more at your excellent table.”

“It is a welcome change from Toli's seeds and berries,” joked Quentin. “But we will not wish to linger overlong.”

“Strange, I have never known you to refuse a mouthful,” quipped Toli, who had woken up and now came to stand with them. “The rain will stop before morning, but the stream will rise through the night. I shall go out at daybreak to see if it is passable.”

“No need, sir. By morning the flood will have eased. It always does. Have no fear. We will start our journey dry tomorrow, at least. And do not trouble about your horses. I will have all in readiness tomorrow. My sons will see to it. Now, good night.”

Inchkeith, taking up the candle on the table, hobbled across the darkened hall, the sphere of light going before him like a guiding light.

“A most extraordinary man,” said Durwin.

“Most extraordinary,” agreed Quentin. And they all shuffled off to their beds, where they were enchanted into sleep by the distant sound of rain on the stones of Whitehall.

36

T
he massive palace ship of Nin the Destroyer, Immortal Deity, Supreme Emperor, Conqueror of Continents, King of Kings, rocked gently in the swell. The waves rose and fell like the rhythmic breathing of an enormous sea beast. They slapped against the broad beams of the palace ship's sides and made soft gurgling noises along the mighty keel.

The ship was square-hulled, with three towering masts and two great rudders amidships. It was truly a seagoing palace, outfitted with costly timbers and exotic trappings from the various countries Nin had subdued. The decks were teak and rosewood from the Haphasian Islands. Brass fittings, which gleamed like red gold from every corner, came from Deluria and the Beldenlands of the east. Silks and shimmering samite fluttered from delicate screens on deck and in the honeycombed quarters below; these had come from Pelagia. Thick braided rope and the vast blue sails were made in Katah out of materials procured in Khas-I-Quair.

The ship itself had been built in the shipyards of Tarkus under the direction of master Syphrian shipbuilders. Its makers had anticipated every necessity, foreseen all desires of the ship's chief inhabitant, and had accommodated them in ingenious ways. Nin lacked nothing aboard his ship that would satisfy his many voracious appetites.

The ship rode low in the water. The slightest swell could rock it gently, but a raging tempest could not overturn it. And if it moved slowly and ponderously, like its master, what of that? Time meant nothing to the Immortal Nin.

The Emperor of Emperors lay stretched upon a bed of silk cushions, listening to the even breathing of the sea, rocking with the slight roll of the deck. His immense bulk heaved and swayed dangerously, now tossed one way, then the next. The motion was making him feel ill and irritated. With each movement of the ship, his huge, oxlike head lolled listlessly, dull eyes staring outward in mounting misery.

Nin, with a supreme effort of will, prodded himself up on one elbow and grasped a mallet that hung on a golden thong near his head. With a backward flip of the wrist, the mallet crashed into a gong of hammered bronze. As the reverberating summons filled the room, he collapsed back onto the pillows with a moan, dragging one huge paw across his forehead in a gesture of enormous suffering.

In a moment a timid voice could be heard, muffled as it was by the owner's prostrate posture, saying, “You have summoned me, O Mighty One? What is your command?”

Nin, with an effort, turned his head to regard the pathetic form of his minister. “Uzla, you lowest of dogs! What kept you? I have been waiting for hours. I shall have you flayed alive to teach you haste.” The large eyes closed sleepily.

“May I say, Your Omnipotence, that I regret my tardiness and the blindness which prevented me from anticipating your summons. Still, I was but two steps away and now am here to do your bidding.”

“Arrogant swine!” roared Nin, coming to life. “I should have you lick the decks clean with your festering tongue for presuming to address me so.”

“As you wish, Most Generous Master. I will obey.” Uzla made a move as if to leave and begin scouring the decks of the palace ship.

“I will tell you when to go and when to come. Did I not summon you? Hear me.”

“Yes, Immortal One.” Uzla's voice trembled appropriately.

“Has there been no word from my warlords?”

“I regret to inform Your Highness that there has been no such word. But as you yourself probably know, there is perhaps a message on the way even now.”

“Nin does not wait for messages. Nin knows all! You fool!”

“It is my curse, Great One. You would do me kindness to have my tongue torn out.”

Nin rolled himself up on his elbow once more and teetered there like a mountain ready to topple at the slightest touch.

“Shall I send for your chair bearers, Supreme Conqueror? They shall hoist you to your feet.”

“I grow weary of waiting, Uzla.” The sleepy eyes narrowed slyly. “I do not wish to remain here anymore.”

“Perhaps you desire to be somewhere else, Master of Time and Space. Shall I make your desires known to your commander?”

“I have been patient with this desolate country long enough. The conquest is taking too long.” One pudgy hand rubbed a sleek jowl with impatience. “We will go up the coast to the north to make ready to enter Askelon, my new city. I have spoken. Hear and obey.”

“It shall be done, Master. I will tell the commander to set sail at once.”

“I feel like a common thief,” growled Lord Wertwin under his breath.

“I would much rather lead the mounted assault of the camp.”

“We have been through all that, my lord,” Theido explained patiently. “Ronsard is better suited than either of us for such duty. He has experience in the Goliah wars to aid him.”

“I was in the Goliah wars too,” whined Wertwin.

“Yes, of course. However, before this night is through, and before our campaign is ended, we will both be thankful for Ronsard's bold blade. I will tell you plainly that I would not welcome a ride into the camp of the Ningaal.”

“Hmph!” Wertwin snorted. He trudged off to his appointed station with his men, now armed with longbows and arrows and hidden in a bushy hollow.

The army of the Dragon King, such as it was, had been training with their new weapons and reclaiming rusty skills. They were now ready to try them in combat with the Ningaal
and had, with extreme care and cunning, moved to within a stone's throw from the camp of their enemy. The archers lay hidden behind trees and bushes, in hollows of furze and within gorse hedges. Despite the grumbling that had accompanied the announcement of the proposed change in tactics, there was a tingling of excitement in the air as the men readied themselves for the ambush.

“Theido, are your archers in place?” asked Ronsard, bending to whisper from his saddle. It was very late; the moon was low in the western sky, slightly above the horizon. The knight's face shone faintly, but his features were barely discernible.

“They are.” The two men looked at one another briefly. Theido reached a hand out and gripped his friend by the arm. “Take no undue risks. This business is risky enough.”

“Do not worry. Surprise is on our side—this once, at least.”

“The Most High God goes with you, my friend.”

Ronsard cocked his head slightly. “Do you suppose he cares about such things as this?”

“Yes, I believe he does. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I have never prayed to a god before a battle. I did not consider it meet to invoke the aid of heavenly powers on earthly strife. It is man's fight and should be settled by man's own hands.”

“The Most High is concerned with the well-being of his servants. By his hand alone are we upheld in all we do.”

Ronsard straightened in the saddle, pulled the reins back, and wheeled his steed around. “I have much to learn about this new god, Theido. I hope that I may have time to learn it!”

The knight returned to the place where his men were waiting, already mounted and eager to be about their task. He glanced around at all of them, checking each one for readiness. In order to move more quickly in the saddle and more nimbly, Ronsard had required his raiders to don only hauberk and breastplate, leaving the rest of their armor behind. They each carried their long swords and small tear-shaped bucklers upon their forearms.

Ronsard nodded, completing his inspection. “For honor! For glory! For Mensandor!”

With that he turned and led his men into the wooded grove wherein the Ningaal lay encamped.

Theido saw his friend disappear into the darkened wood; he thought he saw his right hand raised in salute. The fifteen horses and men, Ronsard's bravest, slipped into the darkness. Theido offered a prayer for them as they passed, and then he took his place, sword in hand.

He waited. The night seemed to grow suddenly still. He could hear nothing save the night wind sighing in the trees and a nighthawk keening as it soared among the scattered clouds.

And then it came: a startled shout, cut off short. And then more shouts interspersed with the cold ring of steel on steel. Then the sounds became confused—horses whinnying and men giving voice to their battle cries. In a moment he heard the sound of horses crashing back through the wood, much more loudly than they had gone in.