The Warlords of Nin (40 page)

It seemed to be moving, stretching, growing thinner and pulling other stars into its dance, for it swirled and shimmered in the blackness of the sky like a living thing. The stars melted together into a single shaft of light, cold and hard as ice. A thin, tapering shaft that stretched from the east to the west, from one end of the night to the other.

The tinkling was, Quentin realized now, the music of the stars, and the flashing shaft of light was the blade of a mighty sword.

In a twinkling Quentin realized he was seeing it: the Zhaligkeer.

The sword, its hilt of glittering golden stars with lordly jewels embedded—ruby, amethyst, topaz, and emerald—began to rise slowly, tilting upward as a sword lifted in triumph. Then the tip dipped and slipped and began falling through the black void of heaven, spinning as it fell, and flashing fire into the darkness.

The Shining One arrowed to earth in an arc of white fire. The brilliance of that plunge dazzled Quentin, but he looked on without flinching. The sword came to rest just above the peaks at the farther end of the valley where the Falls of Shennydd Vellyn poured out of the steep mountainside. It hovered there for an instant and then slid slowly down, as a sword sliding cleanly into its scabbard. There it remained for a moment, its glow diminishing rapidly and fading away in the sweeping mist.

When Quentin came to, he was staring at the falls, and the night lay deep around him. The mountains were sleeping, and he heard only the laughter of the rumbling water. But burned into his brain was the image of the sword. And without a whisper of doubt, he knew where he would find it.

“Durwin! Wake up!” Quentin whispered hoarsely. “Please wake up, or it will be too late!” He jiggled the sleeping hermit's shoulder and then stood to look once more into the wreathing mist.

“What is it?” said Toli, rising up silently. “What has happened?”

“I have seen it—Zhaligkeer. I know where we will find it. Look! The falls! Do you see?”

Durwin mumbled and raised his head. “Oh, it is you, Quentin,” he said groggily. “It is bad luck to disturb the sleep of a hermit. I thought you knew that.”

“I have seen the sword. Zhaligkeer! I know where it will be found.”

“I do not see anything,” reported Toli, still looking toward the falls.

Quentin whirled and pointed with his left hand. “It is there. I—” A look of deep disappointment bloomed upon his face. “No, it has gone now. But it was there, I tell you! I saw it!”

Quentin was striding away hurriedly. “Wake Inchkeith, Toli.” The hermit sighed. “We will follow him. We seem to have no other choice.”

“Inchkeith is awake,” said the armorer. “What is the meaning of this fracas?”

“Quentin had a vision,” explained Toli as they leaped after him. “He says he has seen the Shining One and knows where it will be found.”

Quentin was leading them toward the falls along the grassy bank of the lake. The moon was down behind the mountains in the west, but their path was illumined by the unnaturally bright light of the Wolf Star. Quentin did not take his eyes from the falls ahead; it was as if he did not trust himself to remember what he had seen if he looked away for even an instant.

The others hopped along behind him; Toli darted back and forth from running beside Quentin to urging the others to a quicker pace. A breathless hour's travel brought them near the base of the falls. Quentin was standing at the foot of the towering cascade when Durwin and Inchkeith came puffing up.

The roar of the waterfall did not sound like laughter now. It was a mighty rumble that inundated them and set their bones to quivering.

Quentin turned to them, his face glistening with the spray, mist curling around his shoulders and beading on his cloak like pearls that gleamed in the starlight. “There!” he said, pointing his good hand. “The entrance to the mines is up there.”

Durwin pulled on his chin. Inchkeith frowned. “Impossible! What do you propose to do? Swim up the falls like a salmon?”

Toli said nothing—only looked at the swirling, splashing water and at Quentin shrewdly. Durwin eyed Quentin closely. “I do not doubt what you saw. Let us see whether it answers the riddle. Let us see . . .” He put his finger in the air and opened his mouth to speak.

“‘When mountains sleep, sharp vigil keep; you shall see the way most clear.'”

“Yes, I have seen it! The sword fell from the sky and disappeared into the falls.”

“I thought you were not listening, but that is very good. Yes, and it fits, too. ‘When you hear laughter among the clouds.'”

“I heard it. The waterfall sounded like laughter.”

“Some laughter!” shouted Inchkeith. “I can hardly hear a word you are saying over the roar!”

Quentin ignored the remark. “‘Among the clouds' . . . See how the mist forms the clouds. What else could it be?”

“Hmmm, yes,” agreed Durwin. “‘And see a curtain made of glass.'”

“The water is a curtain!” cried Quentin, his face shining and eager in the white light. “‘Take no care for hand or hair,'” he recited, thrusting out his hand. “It is wet!” He rubbed his hand through his hair. “And my hair is dripping, and so is my cloak. I am soaking wet.”

“So it is!”

“We are all soaking wet, and fools for it!” grumbled Inchkeith.

“‘Divide the thunder and seek the narrow way,'” continued Durwin. “Go through the waterfall? Do you suppose?”

“Of course! Yes! That is what I have been trying to tell you.”

“‘Give day for night, and withhold the light, and you have won the day,'” quoted Durwin. He looked around. “Well, it is night. But it could also mean that the entrance could only be seen in the darkness or that entering the mine in darkness would—”

“I see it!” called a faint voice somewhere above them.

“Toli!” said Quentin. “Where is he?”

The three looked around, but could see the plucky Jher nowhere. He had disappeared while they were puzzling over the clues of the riddle.

“Here!” he called again. They looked to the falls and suddenly Toli was there, stepping out of the tumbling water as from behind a shimmering curtain. He seemed to be standing on the sheer rock face of the cliff, or walking on the mist. “Come up here. Do not mind the water!” he said, and disappeared again.

Quentin was already running after him. Durwin and Inchkeith traded doubtful stares. “It seems all chances of a peaceful night have vanished,” sighed Durwin.

“And a dry one,” grumbled Inchkeith. “We may as well have our bath and be done with it.”

The two followed Quentin around the rocky edge of the pool at the base of the falls, where the water gathered churning and bubbling to spill into the stream that fed the pool in the center of the valley. The rocks were wet and slippery, making the way slow and laborious for the two older men. Quentin fairly skipped over the rocks and soon came to stand at the edge of the plunging torrent. Durwin saw him smile, look back over his shoulder at them, and then step into the churning water.

In a few moments they heard his voice calling down to them. “Do just as I did. I will wait for you.”

“After you, good hermit,” said Inchkeith. “I will follow in your wake. It's only fitting. This is your expedition, after all.”

“So it is!” said Durwin. He took a deep breath and stepped into the glassy curtain of rushing water.

43

C
ourage, men!” Theido cried. “Fight on! Our deliverance is near!” The trumpet sounded a valiant note, piercing above the din of battle and the shrieks of the combatants.

And then a voice called out from above on the hill behind them. “It is the Dragon King! He has come! The Dragon King has come! We are saved!” The trumpeter, his grinning features shining and eyes wide with wonder, raised his trumpet once more and began to blow a strong and steady note of hope.

Those below him on the hill heard his words and turned their eyes to the dim wood beyond. A murmur passed among the beleaguered defenders like a spark through dry kindling. “The Dragon King is coming! We are saved! The Dragon King!”

Theido, too, raised his eyes to the wood. Faintly, as in a dream, he saw the glitter of gold and scarlet flicker among the shadowy branches of trees like dancing light. And then suddenly he saw it full and fair: the writhing, angry dragon, the king's blazon, floating swiftly toward them, darting through the trees.

Others saw it, too. “The dragon! The king!” they shouted. And the dark wood rang with the sound of trumpets and the crash of knights on horseback surging through the forest. The Ningaal, surprised by this unexpected turn, fell back, breaking off the attack. One warlord wheeled his troop around to face the battle on the newer front. For a moment the Ningaal were divided.

“Strike, bold knights!” cried Ronsard. “Strike! Now!”

The knights, bruised and beaten and greatly reduced in number, surged ahead upon the points of their swords and sheer determination. The Ningaal before them, unable to meet the attack from both sides at once, scattered like leaves before the storm. In moments the stalwart band of defenders was surrounded, not by the enemy, but by comrades-in-arms. The bloodied knights lifted their swords with weary arms and cheered their king, while the fresh forces of the lords of Mensandor charged into the confused Ningaal.

Theido and Ronsard, battered and bleeding, stood leaning on their swords. “You are alive, thank the gods!” They looked up and saw Eskevar grinning down upon them from his great white charger.

“Yes, we had all but given up hope,” said Ronsard. “But Theido here thought differently.” The knight turned to his friend. “Another premonition?”

“No—well, perhaps in a way, I suppose. At first I thought it might hearten the men to hear our trumpet sound the call. And if there was a chance that anyone was passing near, they would hear and come to our aid. Where I came by that idea I cannot say.”

“However it was,” said Eskevar, watching with knowing eyes, “your clarion guided us to you forthwith.” He jerked his head around, and Theido caught a glimpse of the man that used to be—eager, strong, and quick to the heart of the battle. “You and your men fall back through the wood. We will take these and put an end to it here and now.”

“Sire!” The voice was Myrmior's; he came running up from the thick of the fighting. Theido and Ronsard had not seen him since he had stood with them on the hillside. Once again he had unhappy news. “The Ningaal across the river are swarming over the barriers, now there are no archers to hold them back. Do not think you will crush them so easily. Even now they are working to gain advantage on two sides.”

“What?” Eskevar wheeled his mount around and rode a few paces away. In a moment he was back. “By the gods! These warlords are cunning wolves.”

“Unless you have brought more men with you than I see, I suggest we retreat while we have the means and the strength to do so.”

Eskevar glared at the panting seneschal. The afternoon light slanted sharply through the trees, but served only to heighten the dimness of the battlefield, most of which lay under gathering shadow. Clearly he did not like the idea of retreating from the first contact with the enemy; it rankled his fighting spirit. But his head wisely overruled his heart. “As you say, Myrmior. Theido, Ronsard, get your men behind us and take yourselves away toward Askelon!” The king shouted this last order over his shoulder as his charger sprang away.

Theido and Ronsard gathered the tattered remnant of their once-powerful force and left the field. The shouts and clamor died away behind them as they pushed back through the forest along the path Eskevar and his knights had forced through the wood. Though bone-weary and no longer able to lift their swords, the knights doggedly placed one foot in front of the other and dragged themselves away.

After they had walked nearly half a league, the forest thinned, and they came to a fresh-running brook. There they stopped to kneel and drink. Several of the knights among them knelt down, but could not rise again. Others stood teetering on their feet, afraid to stoop lest they, too, be unable to overcome the weight of their armor and succumb to exhaustion.

“We must press on,” said Ronsard, casting a worried eye around him. A few soldiers had splashed across the creek and now lay gasping on the other side. “If we tarry much longer, they will bury us here.”

“If we had horses, we would have a chance,” Theido said. “When Eskevar sounds the retreat, they will soon pass us by. A knight on foot is no knight at all. This armor was not made for marching.”

“I do not welcome the thought of being left behind when the army comes by. But look, Theido,”—Ronsard pointed across the brook to a clearing where a line of wagons rumbled toward them—“you have only to speak your mind and it is done. Today is your day, my friend.”

“It certainly seems so.”

In moments Eskevar's surgeons were scurrying among them, removing gorgets and breastplates, greaves and brassards and mail shirts, attending to the wounds of the knights. The armor was collected by squires and taken to the waiting wagons. Other knights began calling for squires to come and help them strip off their armor, and once unburdened, they splashed their way across the brook and made for the meadow.

The sun was westering when Theido and Ronsard stepped into the lea. They had waited until all their men had been tended and had either walked out of the forest or had been carried out and placed in a wagon. Just as they stepped out of the wood, a cheer went up from the soldiers. Looking around, they saw several men leading horses. Unbelievably, they were their own chargers—the animals, separated from their riders during the fight, had headed toward home and had been collected by the squires. Many of the knights found their own mounts; others took the mount of a fallen friend.

“Be mounted, men!” shouted Ronsard happily. “To Askelon!”