The Warlords of Nin (46 page)

And Nin marched on toward Askelon.

In Askelon the lords met secretly and discussed the strange behavior of the king. Some said it was the star that had driven him mad, that it had touched him as it had touched the people cowering within Askelon's mighty walls. Others said his illness was upon him again. They all worried together what would happen if their knights and soldiers should find out that the Dragon King would be unable to lead them in battle, for none of them held the slightest hope that they could long endure the siege. Sooner or later they must meet the enemy on the field to defeat him. Desperately they hoped Eskevar would be recovered in time to lead them, if only for a show to the men, for they were certain the fateful battle was drawing swiftly nearer.

“Is there any word?” asked Eskevar anxiously. He seemed composed and in his right mind, resting peacefully in his bed. Biorkis and the queen stood by him as the lords entered his chamber.

Lord Rudd, who had taken it upon himself to speak for the rest of the lords, approached the king's high bed.

He knelt, saying, “Sire, we have had no word, and now the opportunity for such is gone. The warlords of Nin have surrounded the castle on all sides. They occupy the plain below the rock and have taken the town as well. They have as yet not dared to draw near the ramp, but that will come soon, I have no doubt. Askelon is besieged.”

“So it has begun,” sighed Eskevar wearily. “I had hoped a messenger might come from the lords to the north to bring word of their decision to join us.”

“It is too late, I fear. Even if a messenger came now, he would not get through the enemy. But even so, the lords might still come.” Lord Rudd glanced at his peers and hastily added, “We would seek a boon, Sire.”

“You shall have it,” replied Eskevar. “Ask it and it is yours.”

“We would have you come and speak to the knights and men, Your Majesty. There are rumors . . .” Rudd fell silent, feeling he had said too much.

“Rumors? Ah, yes, what are they? You need not fear to anger me. I know full well the rumors voiced about.”

Rudd looked nervously to the others for help.

“Well?” demanded Eskevar, his temper rising. “Speak, man!”

“Some say that you are changed, Sire. That you do not have the will to fight—”

“They say that I am insane! That is what you mean. Say it is so!”

“It is so, my lord.” Rudd lowered his head.

Eskevar made a move as if to leap out of bed. “Please, Sire!” Biorkis jumped to life. “Stay abed but a little and regain your strength.”

“Listen to him, my lord,” pleaded Alinea, rushing up. She threw a dark, disapproving look at the unhappy lords, who made a move as if to withdraw at once.

“No!” Eskevar held up a hand toward the priest and his queen. “Do not hinder me. I will go with my lords to speak to the soldiers. They must have no doubts, nor harbor despair in their hearts for their king. I will show them I am neither ill nor afraid.”

He turned to the lords. “Assemble the knights and men in the inner ward. I will speak to them from the battlements of the inner curtain and will pass among them when I have spoken to quell their fears and apprehensions. They will see me and will know I am with them and will lead them.”

The lords, anxious to be away from that room, bowed as one and rushed out to begin bringing their troops together. When they had gone, Biorkis and Alinea came close to the king and helped him up.

“You are so weak, my king,” Alinea sobbed. Tears filled her green eyes and ran freely down her cheeks.

“Let me tell them you will come tomorrow,” suggested Biorkis. “Rest just this night, and you will feel stronger.”

“No, it cannot be. Tomorrow may be worlds away. I must go at once. The rumors must not be allowed to persist if I can stop them, for they would eat away my soldiers' hearts. A soldier needs his heart if he is to fight for his homeland. I must go.”

Leaning heavily on their arms, he stumbled toward the door. When they reached it, Eskevar squared his shoulders and raised his head. “I will walk alone,” he said, and went out.

When he had gone, Alinea turned tearfully to Biorkis. “He should never have gone into battle, Biorkis. He was just getting better. He exerted himself overmuch and has not recovered his strength, and . . . and, oh, now I fear he never will!” She buried her face in her hands. “If Durwin were here, he would know what to do,” she sobbed.

Biorkis wrapped one arm around her slim shoulders and comforted her. “Yes, Durwin would know what to do, but he is not here. We will have to think what he would do in our place, and then do it.”

“I am sorry,” sniffed Alinea. She raised her eyes to the kindly old priest's. “I did not mean to belittle you. Your help has been most valuable. I just—”

“Say no more. I, too, wish Durwin were here. He has far more knowledge of the world and men than I. I have been too long on my mountain, removed from the ways of mortals, and I feel old and useless. Let us hope that Durwin will return soon.”

“Let us pray that he does.”

“Yes, my lady. By all means let us pray that he does.”

Eskevar went out from the eastern tower and strode along the battlements in the cold, mocking light of the star. His great cloak swept like a huge, dark wing after him, the silver dragon device glittering in the strange light. Theido and Ronsard marched gravely by his side, and when they had reached the midpoint along the inner curtain battlements, Eskevar stopped and looked down at the ranks of soldiers that had been assembled to hear him speak.

As he looked down upon them, seeing their fearful faces turned upward to his, seeking strength there, and wisdom and assurance, he felt very old and tired. They were sapping him, he thought, and it was as if he felt his strength ebbing away even as he gazed down upon them. He felt too tired, too used up, to speak.

But they were waiting, watching him. His men were watching and waiting for him to banish their fears. How could he do that, he wondered, when he could not banish his own? What words were there? What magic could make it happen?

Without knowing what he would say, Eskevar opened his mouth and began to speak, his voice falling down from on high like the voice of a god.

He spoke and heard his voice echoing back
into the small places of the inner ward. Murmurs arose in response to his words, and Eskevar feared he had said something wrong, that he had run afoul of his own purpose. But he spoke on, oblivious to the words that tumbled from his mouth unbidden.
They are right,
he thought bitterly.
The king is insane.
He is babbling like an idiot from the battlements and does not know what he is
saying.

The murmurs changed gradually to shouts and then to cheers. As Eskevar's last words died away, the inner ward yard erupted in shouts of acclaim and hearty cheers and battle cries. Then suddenly the soldiers were singing an ancient battle song of Mensandor, and somehow he, Eskevar, was moving through the thronging soldiers, touching them and being touched by them.

The Dragon King stood among his troops, bewildered by their cheers and high acclaim. He was humbled, realizing he did not know what he had said; he was gratified, knowing that his words had been the right ones.

The cheers and songs had not run their courses when they were interrupted by a sound not heard in Askelon for five hundred years.
Boom!
The sound rolled away like hollow thunder.
Boom! Boom!
It came again, and all around the Dragon King became silent. The cheering stopped; the singing shrank away.
Boom! Boom! Boom!

The Ningaal had brought a battering ram to the gates of Askelon. The siege war had begun.

50

Ican scarcely believe it still,” Quentin said, flexing his arm. “It is as if it had never been injured at all. Better even! And look; the skin is not withered, and the muscle is firm.”

Toli, standing near as Durwin unwrapped the bandages and removed the splints, replied, “I can well believe it. The stories of old were true ones. The Healing Stone still exists.”

The two glowing lumps of rock shimmered like fiery white coals fresh from the fire as they lay beside the black pool. Durwin finished examining Quentin's arm and satisfied himself that, indeed, it was whole and healthy once more. “So it is!” the hermit said, still prodding Quentin's arm with his fingers. “Your arm is healed most wonderfully. If I had not set it myself, I would say that it was never broken.”

Durwin cocked his head to one side and observed Quentin closely. “I see nothing now that would prevent you from lifting the Zhaligkeer. Do you?”

With a thrill like the touch of a spark to the skin, Quentin remembered all his old misgivings, which he had succeeded in putting far out of his mind. In an instant they all rushed back upon him like a flood, quenching his excitement of the moment. Something like fear grabbed him in his gut and squeezed with an iron grip.

“Do you still think I am the one?”

“Why do you fear? You have already chosen to follow the Most High. This is the way he has set for you. Do not turn away from it.”

Quentin stood looking at the blazing stones. “But the prophecy . . . It is . . .” Words failed him.

“You think that you will be alone? Is that it? Ha! You will not rid yourself of us that easily. We will be ever at your side. Do not think the Most High makes his servants tread only lonely paths. His ways are more clearly seen with the help of others of like spirit. He has given us to you, as you have been given to us, that we might help each other.”

“Take it, Quentin. It is for you.” Durwin threw out a hand toward the white stones, and Quentin slowly, reluctantly bent toward them and picked them up.

“Yes, I will take it. I will claim the Zhaligkeer.” So saying, he lifted the stones high over his head as if he already had a sword in his hands. “Inchkeith! Let us begin. Time is drawing short. There is a sword to be made!”

But when they looked around, Inchkeith was not to be seen.

Boom! Boom!
The sound of the ram against the gates thundered on and on. The peasants who had crowded into Askelon to escape the enemy screamed in terror at every dreadful knell. The outer wards were roiling in panic.

Archers had mounted to the gatehouse barbican and were endeavoring to pick off the Ningaal plying the massive battering ram against the drawn bridge of the castle. Occasionally an arrow would strike home, and an enemy warrior would tumble off the narrow plank they had thrown over the chasm that divided the end of the ramp from the castle; despite this annoyance the Ningaal were not greatly hindered. They were protected by the ironclad roof over their implement, and any unlucky wretch who chanced to show himself too openly was replaced in a trice by another. So the drumming continued on and on and on.

“Call off the archers,” said Theido, gazing down from the battlements. “We may as well save our arrows. They are not going to prevail against the gate. No one ever has.”

“We could pour fire down upon them,” suggested Rudd, wearing a worried expression. “That would get rid of them.”

“And it would also burn down our own gates!” snapped Ronsard irritably.

“I do not think even fire would harm those gates,” mused Theido, shaking his head. “But I could be wrong. Still, it would be better not to take an unnecessary chance. We will wait to see what they try next.

“They cannot tunnel beneath the walls, for they rise out of solid rock, and the mountain is stone as well. The postern gate is well protected, and the maze of walls leading to it prevents the use of a ram such as this. Our archers can keep them at bay there, too. My guess is they must find a way through that gate and that gate alone, for there is no other way into Askelon Castle.”

As he finished speaking, the Ningaal took up their pounding again.
Boom! Boom!
The timbers of the gate shuddered with each massive blow, but held firm.

Theido turned away from the battlement, and Ronsard followed him, after instructing his officers to bring him word if the situation should change in any way.