The Warlords of Nin (8 page)

Eskevar gazed into the young man's eyes with a look of inexpressible tenderness; a fatherly compassion that Quentin had never seen before suddenly flowered. Quentin was strangely moved and forgot for a moment the horror of the king's shattered health.

“Quentin,” said Eskevar after a moment's contemplation, “as you know, I have no son, no heir to my throne save Bria. My brother, Prince Jaspin, is banished, nevermore to return. I think it is time for me to choose my successor.”

“Surely, my lord is mistaken.” Quentin gulped. “Now is not the time to think of such things. You have many years ahead of you. You are strong yet.”

Eskevar shook his head slowly, frowning slightly. “No, it is not to be. Quentin”—again the sweet, sad smile and fatherly glance—“Quentin, I am dying.”

“No!”

“Yes! Hear me!” The king raised his voice. “Slowly it may be, but I am dying. I shall not live to see another spring. It is time for me to set my house in order.

“I intend to choose you as my successor—wait! Since you are not in direct bloodline, it will have to go before the Council of Regents. I expect no problem there. As I have chosen you myself, they will ratify my choice gladly.”

Quentin sat gazing at his folded hands, speechless. The king's words had stricken him mute.

After what seemed like hours, he looked up and saw Eskevar watching him quietly, but intensely. “You honor me greatly, Sire. But I am not worthy of such high accord. I am an orphan, and of no noble birth. I am not worthy to be king.”

“You, Quentin, are my ward. You have been a son to me as I have watched you grow to manhood these last years. I want you, and no other, to wear my crown.”

“I do not know what to say, my lord.”

“Say but that you will do as I command; ease my heart in this matter.”

Quentin stood up from his chair and then went down on his knees before his king. “I am ever your servant, Sire. I will obey.”

Eskevar placed a hand upon Quentin's head and said, “I am content. Now my heart can rest.” He took Quentin by the arm; his grip was spidery and light. “Rise, sir! One king does not kneel to another. From this day forth you are heir to the throne of Mensandor.”

Just then there came a knock upon the chamber door and Oswald's voice could be heard calling, “The others have arrived, Your Majesty,” as the door swung open.

In walked Toli and Durwin. Toli hesitated at the sight of the king, but Durwin did not flinch at all. He hurried to the table and, with a quick bow, began talking of his travels, all the while keeping a close eye on the ailing monarch as if weighing him for some remedy.

“Good, good. Be seated, both of you. We have a matter to discuss.”

The king looked at his comrades closely and drew a deep, weary breath before he began.

“For some time I have been of an uneasy mind. Restless, hungry, and uneasy. At first I attributed it to the illness which consumes me, but it is more than that, I fear. It is for Mensandor that my unease persists. There is some distress in the realm.”

The Dragon King spoke softly and distinctly, and Quentin realized that Eskevar had so long been the head of his land that he had developed a special feeling for it and knew instinctively when something was wrong. It was as if part of him were hurt, and he felt the wound. He had discerned trouble before anyone else had suspected even the slightest eddy in the current of peace and prosperity that flowed through the kingdom.

It struck him—absurdly at first, but with growing conviction—that perhaps what ailed the land was the cause of the king's distress as well.

“To prove my intuition I summoned the faithful Theido and Ronsard to me and sent them with a small force to discover, it they could, whence the trouble came.

“The time for their return is now past. I have received no word or sign from them, and I am anxious for what may have befallen them. That is why I have summoned you.” He nodded to Quentin and Toli. “It becomes ever more urgent that we discover the source of our harm before it is too late. There is evil afoot; I feel it. Each day it grows stronger. If we do not find it soon and crush it out . . .”

“My lord,” said Toli, “we have seen portents which would indicate the prudence of your fears.”

“And
I as well,” agreed Durwin.

Toli and Durwin shared with the king the signs they had observed, foreshadows of an impending evil they could not identify. Quentin noted that as his two comrades spoke, and especially when they mentioned the Wolf Star, Eskevar appeared to fall even further beneath the weight of his kingdom's peril.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, the king spoke solemnly. “Quentin and Toli, my brave friends, we must discover wherein our danger lies. My people require your courage.”

“We will go at once and seek out this evil. And it may be we will find good Theido and Ronsard as well,” Toli offered boldly.

Quentin said nothing but stared from one to another of the faces around the table.

“Very well,” sighed the king. “You know I would not send you out thus if I thought it were but a small thing, or if another could serve as well.”

He turned and looked at Durwin thoughtfully. “You, sir, I did not summon, but as usual, one who knows me better than I know myself has doubtless interceded.” He smiled again, and Quentin saw a flicker of the former man. The king continued, “I will detain you, good hermit, that you may remain with me. I may soon have need of your ministrations, and perchance your arts will be better employed here than on the back of a horse.”

“So it is,” replied Durwin. “I will abide.”

The king rose with some difficulty and dismissed them, asking his two warriors, “How soon will you ride?”

“We will leave at once, Sire,” said Toli.

“It is well; but stay and share my table tonight, at least. I want to see my friends all together before . . .” He did not finish the thought.

The three arose, bowed, and went quietly out. At the door Quentin turned and was about to speak. He looked at Eskevar, and his eyes filled with tears; no words would come. He bowed quickly, then went out, too overwhelmed to say what he felt in his heart.

8

T
he village has been subdued, Most Excellent One.” The rider bowed low in his saddle. Behind him black smoke ascended in a thick, dark column to be scattered by the wind blowing in from the sea. His sorrel pony jerked its reins and tossed its head, its hide besmeared with soot and dried blood. “There was no resistance.”

Savage eyes watched the messenger from beneath the rim of an iron helm ornamented with black plumes that fluttered like wings in the wind. The warlord said nothing, but turned his horse and started slowly away. The messenger spurred his mount forward and drew up beside his departing commander. “Something has displeased you, my master?” The question betrayed apprehension.

“No, it is well. Our task is complete. I will return to the ships; you will accompany me. I may have need of a messenger.” He lifted himself in his saddle and called to several riders who waited a little distance apart. The riders held their helmets under one arm and stared impassively ahead at the smoke curling upward.

“You four”—the commander gestured with his gauntleted hand—“stay with the men and occupy this place. You others will come with me. We ride at once. Follow.”

“But what is to be done with the prisoners, Most Excellent One?” called the messenger after the dark retreating form. The warlord did not turn nor look around, but the messenger heard the words drifting back to him.

“Kill them,” his commander said.

The room hung heavy with the pungent fragrance of burning incense, and clouds of aromatic vapor drifted about the great figure seated on a throne of silk cushions. Tiny colored birds fluttered and chirped in cages nearby, their songs accompanied by the soothing notes of a flute.

Presently, the tinkling ring of a chime sounded in the passageway beyond, followed by a rustle of clothing. The gigantic form seated on the throne appeared to be asleep, for he did not move or acknowledge the intrusion in any way; the huge head rested heavily on the thick neck rising from massive shoulders and a great barrel chest. The meaty hands clasping one another in the wide lap remained motionless, thumbs pressed together.

“Immortal One, I have news,” said the minister who had just entered so quietly. He waited on his knees with his forehead pressed to the floor, hands thrust before him, palms upward.

“You may speak, Uzla.” The voice seemed to fill the small room, even though the words had been spoken quietly.

“Your warlords have returned. And they bring tidings of victory. The cities of the coast are subdued.”

“Has a suitable residence been found for me?”

“Alas, no, Immortal One, these were but small villages, and none possessed a dwelling worthy of your being. For this effrontery the villages have been burned and the ashes scattered, lest the sight of them displease you.”

Nin the Destroyer looked darkly upon his most trusted minister. “This land will feel my wrath!” he shouted. The birds trembled in their cages, and the music stopped. Uzla, the prime minister, cowered below him on the floor.

“The wretches of this accursed land speak of many castles in the north, and one in particular which may serve your needs while you sojourn here to subject this land to your will.”

“What is the name of this palace?”

“It is called Askelon. It is the city of the high king of this land—one known as the Dragon King.”

“Ah,” said Nin softly. “The sound of these words pleases me. Say them again.”

“Askelon is the home of the Dragon King.”

“It will be my home, and I will be the Dragon King. This pleases me. I have never killed a dragon before—have I, Uzla?”

“No, my Deity. Not to my knowledge.” He hastened to add, “That is, unless in a previous life, of course.”

“Then I will look forward to that event with anticipation, and I will savor the moment of its accomplishment.” He stood slowly. “Now, where are my warlords?” Nin asked, his deep voice booming.

“They await you on the beach,” replied Uzla. “I will summon them.”

“No, I will go to them. They have achieved my desires and will be rewarded by the sight of their god drawing near to them.”

“As you command, Great One.”

Uzla bowed again and raised himself from the floor. He turned and withdrew to the hall, clapped his hands, and shouted, “The Deity walks! Kneel before him, everyone!” He went before his sovereign, clapping his hands and shouting the warning. Nin followed slowly, balancing his immense bulk upon ponderous legs.

As they reached a short flight of stairs that led upward to the deck of the palace ship, Uzla clapped his hands again, and eight attendants brought a throne on poles. They placed the throne before their king, and he lowered himself onto it. Then, straining every muscle, the chair bearers climbed the steps, careful to keep the throne level, lest they incur the wrath of their temperamental god. Soon they moved out upon the deck.

Two more attendants waited on deck with large shades made of brilliant feathers. As soon as Nin's chair emerged out upon the deck, the huge, burly head was shaded from the bright sunlight of a beautiful summer day. The attendants swayed under the weight of their burden, but proceeded down a long ramp that had been erected out over the shallow water from the palace ship to the shore. The ramp terminated in a platform on the beach, forming a dais from which Nin the Destroyer could command his subjects.

At the sight of this procession moving slowly down the ramp, the four warlords dismounted and drew near to the dais, prostrating themselves in the sand. The chair bearers reached the platform and placed the mobile throne squarely in the center of the dais, beneath
a broad canopy of rich blue silk. Then they withdrew to await their king's command, kneeling with their faces touching their knees.

The blue silk ruffled in the soft sea breeze. Above the dais, gulls wheeled in the air and shrieked at the spectacle below. Nin raised his hands and said, “Arise, my warlords. You may look upon your Deity.”

The warlords, clad in their heavy armor, rose stiffly to their feet and stood shoulder to shoulder before their patron.

“I have seen your victory from afar,” Nin continued. “With my own eyes I witnessed the flames of destruction. I am well pleased. Now tell me, my commanders, what is the strength of this land? Is there an army to stand before the Destroyer's blade?” He looked at the four fighting men and nodded to one of them who stepped forward slowly. “Gurd?”

The warrior struck his heart with his closed hand; the mailed fist clanked dully upon the bronze breastplate. His long straight black hair was pulled tightly back and bound at the back of his head in a thick braid.

Quick black eyes set in a smooth, angular red face watched Nin closely. “I have seen no soldiers in the south, Immortal One. The peasant villages were unprotected.”