The Warlords of Nin (35 page)

“Here they come!” shouted Theido to his archers. He raised his sword high above his head. In two heartbeats a charger came pounding out of the darkness, its rider low in the saddle. The rider did not stop when he reached the ranks of hidden archers, but continued on down the dale.

“Draw your bows!” Theido shouted. Instantly there came a whisper of arrow shafts against the bow. More knights were now thundering out of the wood, and there was the unmistakable clamor of pursuit.

“Hold steady!” cried Theido as the last knight dashed by him but a pace from where he crouched waiting. He bit his lip—he had not seen Ronsard emerge from the wood.

They waited, bowstrings taut.

Then suddenly the knight appeared at the opening in the wood where he had entered only moments before. He paused and waved his sword. The shouts of his pursuers now filled the wood and echoed in the dell beyond. Theido could see torches, blinking as they waved through the wood. “Get on! Get away!” muttered Theido under his breath. Ronsard spun and galloped into the clearing and away down the dell as the first of the Ningaal came running out behind him.

“Let fly!” shouted Theido, and instantly the night was filled with dark missiles.

The first rank of Ningaal stumbled forward and dropped to the ground without a sound. Their comrades boiled out of the wood behind them and hesitated, uncertain what had become of those just ahead. In that moment's pause, death fell upon them as arrow after arrow streaked to its mark.

The enemy was thrown into confusion and dropped back into the cover of the dark wood with shouts of terror and cursing. But as the first force was joined by others from the camp, Theido thought he heard the coarse, authoritative shouts of the warlord himself. Almost at once Ningaal broke from the forest, but this time they crouched low to the ground and held their shields around them, making very difficult targets for Theido's archers.

“Get ready, men!” ordered Theido. The Ningaal were now moving more quickly over the ground between them. “Let fly!” shouted Theido, and his words were answered by the rattling scrape of arrow points upon the Ningaal shields. But some of the arrows found a home, and cries of shock and outrage stabbed the night as the shafts bit deep.

“Retreat!” cried Theido a moment later. He had seen the warlord upon his horse jump into the clearing, surrounded by his bodyguard.

The knight and his archers did not wait to welcome the newcomers with feathers. Instead they jumped up and ran yelling into the dell, just as Ronsard and his knights had done. A mighty shout arose from the throats of the Ningaal, who now believed that they had the king's army on the run. They bolted after the fleeing archers, treading over the bodies of their comrades.

Theido led his men down the slope and into the dell, across the small brook at its bottom, and up the other side to disappear just over the crest of the hill beyond. The triumphant Ningaal, bellowing praises to their destroyer god, dashed after them, heedless of the darkness that lay upon the land. They rushed headlong, recklessly, into the valley.

As soon as Theido and his men vanished over the hill, the first Ningaal were fording the stream with shouts and curses of anger. Hundreds more of the dark enemy were pounding out of the wood after them to gather in the dell, stopped momentarily by the obstacle of the brook. And once more, in that moment, whistling death streaked out of the skies as Lord Wertwin's archers, hidden all along the sides of the narrow valley, loosed their sting upon them. The Ningaal shrieked in pain and horror, as terrified beasts mortally wounded by an unseen assailant.

Arrows hailed down upon them from every side. Ningaal running out of the woods fell upon their comrades and trapped those trying to flee from the deadly ambush. Those who went down never rose again.

In a moment all who had thrown themselves down into the valley lay still. No more Ningaal came from the forest. No one moved.

“Let us escape now, while we may,” whispered Theido. “The victory is ours if we do not long remain here. They will be back, and soon.”

Ronsard gave a silent signal, and the men, knights, and archers began melting away into the night as quickly and as silently as the shadowy clouds before the moon. Lord Wertwin's force joined them, and they left the field in an instant, leaving it to the fallen Ningaal.

That night warlord Gurd lost five hundred. The Dragon King did not lose a single man.

37

T
he rain-washed sky arched high above like a limitless blue dome. The air was cool and fresh, scented with balsam and pine and the damp of earth. The grass still sparkled with raindrops, glittering like diamonds in the early-morning light. The party had eaten a fine meal at Inchkeith's table and had, thanks to the master armorer's sons, set off without raising a hand—except to down goblets full of Camilla's excellent mulled cider.

Quentin, well fed and rested, had quite forgotten his apprehension of the night before. He had convinced himself that his arm was better—and
that it would surely fully heal. But he still could not see how he could be expected to wield a sword before his bones had knit. Thus the awesome prospect of his being the mysterious, legendary priest king seemed remote and almost ridiculous. In the dazzle of a brilliant new day, he felt ashamed and embarrassed for having had the audacity to presume himself to be in any way central to fulfilling the prophecy.

Of course, it had been a presumption fostered by Durwin, Biorkis, and, for all Quentin knew, Toli. But he had allowed them to lead him into thinking that the prophecy might indeed point to him. The whole thing was foolish, preposterous. Quentin could see that now. He told himself so, and he believed it.

The horses had clattered out of Whitehall's courtyard at first light. Through the cleft in the ridge wall, golden rays of sunlight sliced the violet shadow of the canyon like a blade. It appeared to Quentin as they rode through the gatehouse and out onto the broad meadow, their horses cantering in high spirits, that they moved upon a trail of light all golden and green and shimmering. Everything that came into view, every tree and rock and mountain peak, seemed clean and new and vibrant with life. It was as if the world had been created anew during the night, and the old world had been cast off as a pale, pathetic parody of the true thing. Quentin imagined that he was seeing it all for the first time and that this was how it had looked when the world was young.

He heard a strange whoop behind him and turned to see Durwin's face radiant in the golden light, mouth open and head thrown back, laughing. And then suddenly he was laughing too. Toli started singing, leading them all in a song which he called
“Pella Olia Scear”
or “Song of the Morning Star.”

They sang, and their voices soared up the sheer rock face of the ridge wall and fell whispering back. Beside them, as they neared the cleft, the rock stream cascaded with renewed vigor, leaping over its stony bed and splashing fire gems into the air. The stream, called Rockrace by Inchkeith, spread out like a road of flowing silver as it rushed to meet the day. They followed Rockrace for a long time among the fragrant firs, and then, as the sun mounted higher, crossed it and headed toward the Fiskills' barren foothills.

“How far from here are the lost mines?” asked Quentin after they had ridden for some time in silence. Durwin rode just ahead; he cast a backward look over his shoulder and laughed. “If anyone knew that, my friend, there would be no need of going. The lanthanil would be long gone by now.”

“You know what I mean, you old sorcerer!” shouted Quentin back.

“So it is! How impatient you are. I think that before ten suns have set, we will look upon the entrance to the lost mines of the Ariga. That is, if the mountains are not greatly altered since those maps were made. Just the same, it will be no easy task to find them.”

“We have the riddle,” reminded Quentin.

“Yes, there is that. But you know as well as I that riddles are meant to conceal as much as they reveal. We will have a time of it, I think. The Most High will have to show us very plainly.”

Inchkeith had been listening and now turned toward them and said, “You know, Durwin, the first time we met, you were gabbling about these lost mines of yours. You were full of questions about the lanthanil; you wanted to know if I had ever seen it or worked with it. Do you remember?”

“I remember it well. And I also remember your answer, though you may not. You looked at me with the greatest pity and said, ‘If I had ever touched the metal of the gods, do you think I would still wear the cloak of a hunchback?'

“Mine was a foolish question, I admit. But you must remember I had only discovered the existence of lanthanil and knew nothing of its full properties.”

Inchkeith smiled strangely. “Craftsmen like myself have our own tales of lanthanil, though how much truth is in them I cannot tell.”

“I have on rare occasions heard the elders speak of lanthanil,” said Quentin. “To the Ariga, it was prized more highly than gold or silver. The craftsmen who worked it were almost treated as priests. But I never heard it referred to as a healing agent.”

“Khoen Navish,” Toli reminded him. Quentin turned to see that Toli had dropped back and was now riding beside him, intent upon the conversation.

“Yes, the Healing Stones.”

Durwin looked quizzical and said, “Can you not guess the answer?” Quentin frowned and thought and at last shrugged. “Well, think a moment,” replied the hermit. “The Ariga had no need of healing from any ailment. They lived in perfect health and never fell to disease, and none were ever reported to have been injured in any way. Healing is not mentioned as a property of the stone, although they probably knew about it if Toli's story is true. Its healing properties were seldom mentioned because they had no need of it themselves.

“As for the craftsmen being priests, they were—of a sort. The Ariga craftsmen were skilled in every art; they were poets, you might say. They worked in metal, wood, and stone as our poets work with words. And to the Ariga it was reckoned as almost the same thing. I say ‘almost' because the Ariga rejoiced in a thing well made, for even in the smallest utensils of everyday life, they saw the face of the Most High. So craftsmen were priests in that they allowed the people to see something of their god in the objects around them. And they were greatly respected.”

No more was spoken for a long time. Quentin rode along and thought about Dekra and realized he missed his friends there; he wondered what they were doing and whether they missed him as well. He also wondered what Yeseph would say if he knew that his protégé was now embarked upon a quest for the lost mines of the Ariga. What would Yeseph say if he knew Quentin was to play a role in the forging of the Zhaligkeer?

Eskevar slouched in his thronelike chair. His gaunt visage showed his displeasure quite openly. The lords of Mensandor, now gathered before him, clenched their fists at their sides and scowled determinedly.

“What of the others, my lords?” asked Eskevar, making no attempt to moderate the malice in his voice. “Do they propose to sit round in the field and join in the slaughter with whichever side carries the day?”

“We know not what other lords propose to do, Sire,” said Lord Benniot in measured tones. “But we have come to offer you our swords and those of our knights. We will ride with the Dragon King.”

“To the death, if need be,” added Lord Rudd. “By Azrael, I will not see my king do battle alone while I have a blade beside me. My men are yours, Sire.”

“And mine!” said another. The others declared their loyalty also.

“Well done, my lords,” said Eskevar at last. Though he did well appreciate the decision of these, his loyal nobles, the king was enflamed against those—a sizeable party led by Ameronis and Lupollen—who had, after two days of heated contention, remained unmoved in their decision to withhold support for what they considered the king's war.

“We will go at once to muster and arm our troops. We will march as soon as we can.” Lord Fincher placed his hand to the hilt of his short sword as he spoke. “It will be a pleasure to ride beside the Dragon King again.”

“It will be no pleasure, my lords. Make no mistake!” said Eskevar slowly and carefully. “I believe this will be the utmost test of our might and endurance. If we fail, the world will grow dark. Freedom will die.”

“Then let us fly, Your Majesty. We will return in three days,” said Lord Rudd. “And we will march out with you to meet Theido and Ronsard and Wertwin's men in the field.”

“Yes, fly at once. And remember, my lords, spare nothing. If we fail, there will be nothing left worth claiming in the end. I will speak again to the others to see if my words may yet prevail upon them to change their decision. We will need every strong arm before this war is over, I fear.

“Be on your way. I will await you here,
ready to march at once.”

There was a rustle of fine brocaded clothing as the nobles bowed as one and went out, each to ride with his train to his lands and there to prepare for war.