The Warlords of Nin

by Stephen Lawhead

  “I—I do not know. I do not think so.”

  “You must try. Come, I will help you.” Toli gently lifted his master to a sitting position, but even this effort caused black waves of dizziness to wash over Quentin. He moaned again and could not restrain it.

  “I think your right arm is broken, Kenta. Hold it close to your side, and try not to move it.”

  “I cannot feel anything. But my shoulder . . . ahh!” Toli had placed his hands under Quentin’s arm to drag him from beneath the wagon.

  “The soldiers are asleep, but there are sentries around the perimeter. They are careless, for they are not expecting an encounter this night. We have a chance. Can you stand?”

  “I . . .” With Toli’s help he struggled to his feet, then swayed uncertainly. The pain took his breath away.

  “I will hold you, but we must move now.” Toli guided his first faltering steps as Quentin stumbled helplessly forward, trying to make his legs move in harmony. It was no use—he collapsed not two steps from where they started.

  “Good,” grunted Toli. “We try again. Lean on me.” He raised Quentin back to his feet, and they started off again.

  Quentin tried to raise his head, but searing fireballs of pain burned through his brain with the effort. He let his head wobble upon his chest as Toli propelled them forward. The earth felt strange beneath his feet, as if it were rolling away from him with every step. His legs kept entangling themselves and tripping him, but somehow Toli kept them both upright and moving.

  “Ahead is a gully—maybe fifty paces. We will be hidden there. We can rest before moving again. But we must be as far away from here as possible before daylight.”

  They lurched through the darkness as Toli’s night-hawk vision kept watch for signs of discovery. They were moving away from the camp; the wagons stood between them and the huddled masses of sleeping enemy soldiers. But ahead lay the circle of sentries at their posts.

  The gully, little more than a weedy depression carved in the ground, opened before them, and Quentin slid down the side to lie panting on his back when they reached it. His head ached, and dark shapes, like the wings of ravens, swarmed before his eyes.

  “Listen,” Toli said. He crawled to the rim of the gully to look back toward the wagons. “I think they have discovered our escape. Someone is moving around the wagon. We must move on quickly.”

  He lifted Quentin to his feet, and crouching as low as could be managed, they staggered off again.

  Quentin concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and staying upright; Toli bore the responsibility for keeping them moving. It was all Quentin could do not to cry out in pain when his shoulder was jostled.

  “There are trees up ahead. If we can reach them, perhaps we can rest again.”

  As Toli spoke, they heard a shout behind them and the rattle of men running. “They know!” cried Toli, pulling them forward.

  The trees loomed up as a black mass hurled against a black sky. The moon had set long ago; Toli had chosen this, the darkest hour of night, for their escape. Twice Quentin stumbled and fell full length to the ground, and Toli could not prevent it. Each time Quentin gamely hauled himself back to his feet, though the agony blinded him.

  Somehow they reached the trees. Toli propped Quentin up beside a formless trunk and left him there holding his arm with his good hand. Though the night was cool, Quentin swam in his own sweat and tasted its salty tang on his lips. He fought to remain conscious when he saw the black wings fluttering closer. He felt as if he did not have a single bone that had not been wrenched out of joint.

  Toli was back beside him in an instant. “They are looking for us. They know you have escaped. They have not yet turned toward the trees, but it is only a matter of time. They will find the gully, and they will follow it as we have. We cannot stay here.”

  Quentin gasped and nodded. His temples pulsed with the pain as it twisted deeper and deeper into him. He could feel his strength slipping away. With Toli beside him he started off again, blindly, for between the sweat running in his eyes and the darkness of the wood, he could see nothing.

  There were torches wavering over the landscape now. The soldiers were searching for them in knots of three or more, spreading out over the land. Soon Quentin could hear their voices echoing behind them as they dodged and floundered through the trees. Once he thought he saw the flare of a torch off to his right, moving even with them. The voices of their pursuers, excited by the chase, sounded closer.

  “I have a horse waiting,” Toli said, “down there.”

  Quentin realized dimly that they were standing at the top of a low bluff whose slope was clothed in brambles. Before he could speak Toli had them plunging down the slope and into the thickets, heedless of the barbs tearing at their flesh.

  Quentin fought his way through and, with Toli ever at his side, had almost reached the bottom when his foot struck against a root, and he was flung headlong down the slope. He landed hard, unable to break his fall with his hands, and heard a sickening snap as he felt something give way in his injured shoulder. Daggers of pain stabbed into the wound. A startled scream tore from his throat before he could stifle it.

  Toli darted past him, and Quentin felt a rush of movement just in front of him and realized he had landed almost underneath the horse Toli had somehow acquired and hidden for their escape. Then he felt Toli’s strong hands jerking him once more to his feet. He was pushed into the saddle to hang like a sack of barley, head on one side and feet on the other. Toli was instantly behind him, holding him on with one hand and snapping the reins with the other.

  The horse jumped away, and Quentin saw the earth spin aside in a jumble of confused shapes: branches, rocks, sky, and ground. He saw a light and then another. He heard a shout close at hand and an answer not far away. His teeth ground against each other as he clung helplessly to the saddle.

  Now the shouts of the enemy were all around. A dark shape rushed at them from out of the brush. Toli slashed down at it with the reins. Suddenly the copse was ablaze with torches. Toli jerked the reins hard and turned the horse toward the slope, but it was too steep for the frightened animal. The horse struggled, slid, pawed the air, and then fell back, legs pumping furiously.

  Quentin was flung to the ground and Toli on top of him. In an instant they were ringed by soldiers and seized. Quentin saw the flash of a torch and the awful scowl of a face leering over him; then black hands grabbed him and began dragging him away. He heard a voice shouting in desperation and realized it was his own, but he could not make out the words.

  He jerked his head around to see what had become of Toli, but could only see the swinging torches behind him. How bright the flaming brands are, he thought. It hurt his eyes to look at them. Run, get away! another voice told him, this one inside his head. Yes, he must escape. If only they would release him, he would run and run and not stop running until he was far away.

  Where were they taking him? he wondered. What would happen to him? The questions framed themselves in his mind, but no answers came. Very well, it did not matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He had ceased to feel anything at all. He felt consciousness slipping from him; he heard a furious buzzing sound loud in his ears.

  There was a rush of black wings, and suddenly he was soaring, falling, tumbling, floating high above the earth. Quentin looked down and saw a strange procession of torchbearers marching through the wooded dell. They carried with them the bodies of two unfortunates. Who could they be? Quentin was sorry for them. Sadly, he turned his eyes away and saw the dark edge of the night sweeping toward him.

  It was as if a silken veil had passed before his eyes, removing all from view. He let it touch him and enfold him in its dark embrace. Quentin felt the last fine threads of strength and will leave him, and he knew no more.

  17

  The candles burned low in their tall holders; several had sputtered out, and the inner chamber of the elders smelled of hot beeswax and tallow. The elders sat stonelike, each one hunched o
ver, head bowed and hands clasped. All was silent but for the rhythmic sigh of their breathing.

  The night had drawn full measure, and still they sat. Waiting. Listening. Searching within themselves for an answer to Yeseph’s dream—a most disturbing dream.

  Then at last the waiting was over, for Clemore raised his hands and began to sing. “Peran nim Panrais, rigelle des onus Whist Orren, entona blesori amatill kor des yoel belforas,” he sang in the ancient tongue of the Ariga. “King of kings, whose name is Most High, your servant praises your name forever.”

  The three others slowly raised their heads and looked at Clemore. His eyes were closed and his hands raised to either side of his face.

  “Speak, Elder Clemore. Tell us what has been revealed to you,” Patur said quietly. The others nodded and leaned back in their high-backed wooden chairs; the vigil was over.

  Clemore, eyes still closed, began to speak. “The river is Peace, and the water Truth,” he said. “And the river runs through the land, giving life to all who seek it, for Truth is life.

  “But the storm of war descends, and its evil defiles the water. Truth is poisoned by the lie and is choked off. When Trust perishes and Peace dries up, the land dies. And the gales of war blow over the land, filling the sky with clouds of death, which is the dust. Then darkness—Evil—covers all, blotting out the light of Good.

  “The child who cries out in the darkness is a Child of the Light, who has lost his father, the ways of righteousness. His father’s sword is the knowledge of the Truth, which has been destroyed.

  “But there are some left who do not go down to death and darkness, who still remember the River and the Water and the Living Land. They are the man who weeps. The tears are the prayers of the Holy who mourn the coming of Evil.

  “The prayers are poured out and become a Sword of Light, which is Faith. The Sword flashes against the darkness of Evil, because it is alive with the Spirit of the Most High. The Sword is to be given to the Child, but alas! The Child has been overcome by the Night and is carried off.”

  When Clemore had finished his retelling of the dream, they all spoke at once, joining in agreement with the interpretation. Yeseph’s voice rose above the others. “Brothers! We must not forget that dreams may have several meanings, and all of them are true. I do not doubt that the interpretation we have just heard is truly of the Most High. But I am troubled by one thing.”

  “What is it?” asked Jollen. He opened his hand toward Yeseph, inviting him to speak freely. “It was your dream, after all.”

  “I feel as if there were some more present danger yet unspoken.”

  “Certainly the dream is dire enough, Yeseph,” said Patur.

  “And its interpretation is clear warning,” added Clemore.

  “Yes, a warning of something to come,” said Yeseph slowly, “but also a reflection of something even now taking place.”

  “Well said, Yeseph. I think so, too.” Jollen reached across and touched his arm. “The interpretation was given to us that we might be ready for what is to come. The dream was given to us that we might know there is peril even now upon us.”

  Clemore nodded gravely, and Patur pulled on his gray beard. “What does your heart tell you, Yeseph? What are we to do?” asked the latter.

  “I hardly know, Patur. But I feel a great torment in my spirit. It has grown through the night as we have sat here.” He glanced at the others. “I feel that we must even now pray for the Child of Light whom we have sent out from among us.”

  “Who is that, Yeseph?” asked Clemore.

  “Quentin.”

  “Quentin? But he is in Askelon.”

  “Quentin, yes, and Toli too. They are in desperate need; I feel it.”

  “Then it may be,” replied Jollen, “that our prayers are needed at this moment if the dream is to have an ending.” He turned to the others. “I, too, am troubled about Yeseph’s dream. It does not suggest an end, which means that the end is still in doubt. Therefore, we must unite our spirits, and those of our people, to bring about the ending which the Most High will show us.”

  “Your thoughts are mine,” said Yeseph.

  “Then let us not waste another moment. Our prayers must begin at once.” Jollen raised his hands and closed his eyes. The others followed his example.

  In moments the temple chamber filled with the murmur of the elders’ prayers ascending to the throne of Whist Orren. Outside the temple the silvery light of dawn was tinting the gray curtain of the night in the east.

  Dawn brought with it a sudden chill. The horizon was an angry red, dull and brooding, though the sky seemed clear enough overhead. The wind had changed with the coming morning; Toli had noted it as he lay bound beside his master. Quentin hardly breathed at all. He clung to life with a tenuous grasp. Several times before dawn, Toli had had to place his ear against Quentin’s chest to see if he still lived.

  In the camp the soldiers were busy making ready for their day’s march. Toli, whose eyes missed nothing, had a presentiment that he and Quentin would not be making the trip with them, for he had seen a group of soldiers readying the ropes and harness, and the three guards who now stood over them laughed and pointed at them. Toli knew that the means of their execution was prepared.

  The cooking fires sent white smoke drifting through the camp. The guard on the prisoners was changed, so those who had watched through the night could be fed. When all the soldiers had eaten and were ready to march, reckoned Toli, they would be assembled to view the execution as an entertainment, something to dwell on as they marched that day.

  Toli spent his last moments of life praying for Quentin, who could not pray for himself.

  He was roused with a sharp kick to his back. The blow rolled him over, and Toli looked up into the hate-filled face of a giant who held a battle axe with a blade as wide as a man’s waist.

  The giant, whose face was seamed with crisscrossing scars, pointed at the captives and growled. The guards seized them and dragged them out into the meadow where the army had camped, pushing through the mass of thronging soldiers who formed a solid wall around some object that held their attention.

  Toli and Quentin were pushed through the assembled host and thrown down at the edge of a wide ring formed by the shields of the soldiers. In the center of the ring stood two horses, one facing east and the other west. Between the horses lay a tangle of ropes and two heavy yokelike objects. At the farther side of the ring stood the warlord’s black steed, tossing his head and jerking the arm of the soldier holding his bridle.

  As Toli watched, a ripple coursed through the ranks at the edge of the ring, and a wide avenue opened, through which came a man wearing a breastplate of bronze and a helmet of bronze that had two great plumes like wings affixed to its crest. A cloak was clasped at one shoulder, beneath which protruded the thin blade of his cruelly curved sword. Toli had no doubt that he was seeing the warlord.

  The warlord approached his courser and paused momentarily while two of his men dashed forward and flung themselves at his feet. One lay prostrate, and the other crouched next to him on his hands and knees. The warlord proceeded to climb into his saddle upon the bodies of his men. He then raised his hand in signal.

  Toli swallowed hard, inwardly shuddering. He cast one last look at Quentin, unconscious on the ground beside him. “Stay asleep, Kenta,” he whispered to himself, “and fear nothing. I will go before you.”

  But it was not to be. Two soldiers came forward at the warlord’s signal; one carried a gourd full of water. They rolled Quentin over on his back none too gently; a moan escaped his lips. Toli struggled against his bonds and was struck on the head by a guard.

  The soldier with the gourd knelt over Quentin and placed the vessel against his nose and poured.

  “You will drown him!” shouted Toli, receiving another blow on the head for his trouble. He lunged at the soldier and was kicked in the ribs.

  Quentin coughed violently and choked. Water spouted from his mouth and nostrils, and he awo
ke sputtering. His eyelids flickered, and he turned cloudy eyes upon Toli, who now knelt over him. “My friend . . . ,” Quentin gasped, “I am sorry.”

  Quentin seemed to know what was about to happen.

  Both prisoners were jerked to their feet; Quentin was made to stand supported between two scowling soldiers, one of whom grasped a handful of hair in order to keep the captive’s head erect.

  The warlord gave a second signal, and there was a sudden scuffle behind the two captives. A third prisoner was flung forward into the ring. He was a soldier, bound hand and foot as Quentin and Toli were. “One of the sentries of last night,” whispered Toli. He guessed the warlord would make him the first victim.

  The man’s face was gray; he trembled all over. Sweat soaked his hair and ran down his face—a hideous mass of purple welts, for the man had already received a sound beating. The luckless trooper was quickly wrenched to his feet by two other guards, who then stripped him naked, cutting away his clothing with their knives. The soldiers looking on laughed.

  The unfortunate was marched to the center of the ring, where the giant with the broadaxe waited between the two horses. He was pushed to the ground, where he writhed in anguish as his arms and legs were securely tied to the heavy wooden yokes. Then, upon a signal, the two horses, harnessed to the yokes, were led slowly away in opposite directions.

  The ropes pulled taut. The giant stepped into place over his prey. The victim was lifted off the ground to hang in agony while his body stretched by slow degrees. The horses leaned into the harness, and the man screamed terribly. The awful popping sound of joints and ligaments giving way seemed to fill the ring. As the victim screamed his last, the giant, quick as lightning, spun the broadaxe in a flashing circle about his head and with one hand brought the blade down with a mighty stroke.

  The jolt of the blow almost felled the horses, who stumbled to their knees as the ropes suddenly went slack. The poor wretch was hewn neatly in half as the host wildly clamored their approval, rattling their weapons and cheering.