The Warlords of Nin

by Stephen Lawhead

  “Tell us then,” implored Ronsard. “What can we do?”

  “Remember, too, that we will have greater numbers before long. The council continues to meet, and we may expect help soon, I think,” said Theido hopefully.

  “That we must not count on,” said Myrmior. “What I will propose now will serve us for the time we have to wait, little or long.”

  “Well said. Begin then. We are ready to hear what you would suggest.”

  “Are the soldiers of your country familiar with the bow and arrow?” asked Myrmior.

  “Why, of course!” laughed Ronsard. “It is a useful thing, but hardly a weapon to be relied upon in the field. It is highly inaccurate, and it has not a chance against the steel of a knight’s hard shell.”

  “It is more suited for annoying forest creatures and for striking from a distance in seclusion. It is not a weapon for a knight,” agreed Theido. “The bow cannot be managed from the saddle of a galloping horse.”

  Wertwin only harrumphed. “Bows and arrows! Umph!”

  “At least you have such weapons,” said Myrmior quickly. “Do not condemn the plan before you have heard it fully.

  “I do not propose to take archers onto the field with us, but neither do I propose that we take the field again. I will speak most bluntly. You were lucky today; your gods smiled on you. In all the times I have been with Lord Gurd, he has shown pity to no one and has never left the field if there was the smallest chance of victory.

  “What he did today is rare, but not unheard-of. He gave you a chance to regroup and ready yourself for another battle, because more than the battle itself, he loves a skillful opponent. To him it is no sport to kill a weak and defenseless foe. That is mere slaughter, and there is little immortality to be gained from taking a weak life.

  “You stood against him, and he respected you for it. When you retreated, he recognized a most resourceful foe, one whose death would bring him much blood honor. He wanted you to regroup so that he could savor the satisfaction of your defeat.

  “Like the vinemaster who carefully tends the fruit of his vines, the warlord was testing you and found a match worthy of his art.”

  “What does all this have to do with bows and arrows?” asked Wertwin sullenly. His heart was shrunken within him, and a black mood twisted his features.

  “They are the means by which we will snatch that savored victory from the warlord’s foul maw.”

  “Defeat him with children’s toys? Ha!”

  “Hold, sir!” said Theido. “Let him speak! For I begin to see something of his meaning.”

  Myrmior bowed to Theido. “You are most astute, Lord Theido. I propose that we do not take the field against the Ningaal—at least not yet, not for a long while. Instead, we will harry them by night, raiding their camp and raining arrows upon them when they move to chase us.

  “If we refuse to meet them face-to-face, Gurd will burn with rage. If we are very fortunate, his rage will consume him.”

  “Where is the honor in that?”Wertwin shouted. “To skulk around by night like lowborn thieves, shooting arrows at shadows. It is foolish and absurd, and I will have no part in it!”

  “This war will not be won by your honor. Your men died with honor today, and tonight they lie cold in their graves. How can that help you now? Hear me, my lords! Cling to honor and you will lose your land—more, you will lose your lives.”

  “Myrmior is right,” said Ronsard slowly, glaring at Wertwin as he spoke. “There is no honor if your land is lost. Even if we die with valor, who will remember? Who will sing our praises in the halls of our fathers?

  “We will do well to look first to the cause at hand, and lastly to our good names. I would stay alive to see Mensandor freed of this menace—however it may be done.”

  “I agree,” said Theido thoughtfully. “But I am troubled by one thing. What you suggest is well and good for meeting this warlord with his contingent. But what of the others? Do we allow his brothers to roam unchallenged through the countryside?”

  Myrmior shook his head slowly. He rubbed his bristly chin with a sallow hand. “This is the most difficult part of the plan, my lords. It would be well if your council would speedily send the troops we need, but as it is, I can see nothing for it but to proceed against all the warlords as I have suggested—one at a time. The plan will work, I think, as it does not require a great number of men to carry it out. But we will need archers.”

  “Most of our knights are trained to the bow, though few will readily admit it. We can obtain more archers if we send to Askelon—which we must do to supply ourselves with the bows and arrows.”

  “Then let it be done at once. In the meantime we will withdraw and stay just ahead of the Ningaal until we have weapons enough to begin our raids.”

  “What? Are we to do nothing to impede the Ningaal? Are we to sit by and allow them to march free over our fields?”

  “They have been doing so for a month or more, Wertwin,” said Ronsard. “If we must bear it a little longer to secure our purpose, so be it. We will have to risk that much, at least. Besides,” he added with a mischievous smile, “it may make them wonder what we are up to.”

  “Yes,” agreed Myrmior, “it will increase his wrath. What we attempt to do is worry them so greatly as to make them angry enough to commit a foolish blunder, an error of strategy which we can seize and turn against them. And all the while we will wear away at their numbers bit by bit, like water dripping upon the stone, eroding it over time.”

  Theido stood and stretched; it had been a long day. “Your plan is a good one, Myrmior. I will send a courier to Askelon at once. Tomorrow we will begin schooling our knights to this new way of fighting. I only hope we have enough time to make the change.”

  “It must be made regardless. Believe me, my friends, there is no other way.”

  Wertwin scowled at his comrades and growled as he stalked out of the tent.

  “Do not mind him overmuch,” said Ronsard. “His heart will mend, and he will be staunchly with us soon enough.” He, too, rose and stretched.

  “Thank you, Myrmior. You have given us wise and well-advised counsel this night. I think that, like Wertwin, I should not have believed you if I had not encountered the foe today and felt his cunning strength. I know now that you are right, and like Theido, I pray we are not too late.”

  “It is no doubt that you were a faithful minister to your monarch,” Theido added. “He must have valued your services very highly, but no more than we do now. Before this is over we will have cause to reward your craft and loyalty as it deserves. Perhaps one day you may return as king to your own country.”

  Myrmior turned large, sad eyes toward them. “I can never go back. The land that I knew and loved is gone. Here I have chosen to make my stand, as I should have long ago in my own country. Then I was afraid, but no more. I have daily lived through death too horrible to tell, and it can never terrify me again.”

  The three men stood looking at one another for a long moment. No one spoke. A close bond of friendship had formed between the two knights and the man from Khas-I-Quair, and all three were cheered by its warmth.

  “Good night, brave sirs.” Ronsard yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Tomorrow I take up once more the weapon of my youth. For that I will need my rest, I think.”

  Theido and Myrmior laughed and went to find their own tents for the night.

  34

  Dumbstruck, Quentin stared slack-jawed at their host. He had expected a warrior commander, or at very least a knight well acquainted with battle and the needs of fighting men and their weapons. The person scuttling toward them across the expanse of the hall was quite the opposite of Quentin’s mental image.

  Inchkeith, the legendary armorer, was a small man with a thin, puckered face and sinews like ropes standing out in his neck as if to keep his palsied head from quivering off his thick shoulders. He was slight and bent at an unnatural angle; Quentin saw at once that this was because the master armorer’s spine was curved grot
esquely. He walked on spindly legs in a kind of rolling hop, and not at all in the slow and dignified tread of the man Quentin had imagined.

  But his hands were the hands of a master craftsman: broad, generous, and deft. They were strong hands and sure of movement, graceful and never still for a moment. These remarkable hands were attached to powerful arms and well-muscled shoulders—the shoulders of a young man. It appeared to Quentin that some cruel jest had been played upon the old man with the spindly legs. The brawny arms and chest of a plowman or a soldier had been placed upon the frail body of a deformed scullery servant.

  “It has been long since I have had the pleasure of your company, Durwin. But here you are, and I rejoice at the sight of you.” Inchkeith spoke with a deep voice, contrasting strangely with his wizened appearance. In two hops he was in Durwin’s arms, and the two men were embracing each other like brothers long lost.

  “It is good to see you again, Inchkeith. You have not changed a hair. I have brought some friends with me that I would have you meet.”

  “So I see! So I see! Good sirs, you are welcome in Whitehall now and always. I hope you will feel free to stay as long as you like. We do not have many guests here, and your stay will be cause for celebration.” The master armorer made a ludicrous bow and winked at them. In spite of himself, Quentin laughed out loud.

  “Master Inchkeith, you do us honor. I am certain your hospitality is most gracious.”

  “This is Quentin and his companion Toli,” said Durwin.

  “Ah, Durwin, you travel in good company.” Inchkeith rolled his eyes and held his hands up to his face in a show of respect. “Both of you are well-known here. Your deeds are sung within these walls often, as are the great deeds of all brave warriors.”

  Quentin blushed and bowed, acknowledging the compliment. “The stories do not tell all. I did what any man would have done, and not at all bravely.”

  “Yes, but it was you that did it and not another.” Inchkeith jabbed the air with a forefinger. “That is all the difference!”

  At that moment a door was thrown open at one end of the hall, and a troop of young men came marching in as if they were soldiers drilling in step.

  “Come!” cried Inchkeith, hobbling away. “You must meet my sons. I know they will want to welcome you as well.”

  The travelers followed their host; Quentin and Toli, grinning with pleasure, were irresistibly drawn to this peculiar man—so unlike the exact and scrupulous order around him.

  There were seven sons, all handsome young men and well mannered. They did not speak, except when their father directed a question or indicated that a reply would be welcome. Quentin greeted each one in turn, as did Toli, and remarked that they were all like images of one another: soft brown hair and eyes, full lips and brown cheeks, high, strong foreheads. And they all possessed strong, straight limbs; none had inherited their father’s deformity.

  “These are my army; my treasure, my pride,” said their father, beaming down upon them as they took their places at the table.

  “And these are my gold and jewels!” Inchkeith turned and waved his hand and, as if on signal, a tall, handsome woman entered from the near side of the hall, followed by five beautiful young women. “My lady and my daughters.”

  The young women tittered behind their hands as they approached, their plain muslin gowns swishing pleasantly as they moved together. But when each was introduced to Quentin, she held out her hand like a highborn lady and curtsied. Although he felt foolish, he kissed their hands, to the glowing approval of their mother. Toli felt obligated to follow Quentin’s example.

  “You are most welcome in our home, my lords,” said Inchkeith’s wife. “If you need anything, my household stands ready to serve you.”

  “You are most kind . . .”

  “I am Camilla,” she said, holding her hand out to Quentin. He kissed it, and she curtsied. He noticed that the woman was younger than her husband; he wondered if she had borne all the offspring he saw gathered before him. It was possible—they all had her dark coloring; but if so, she had retained a most youthful appearance.

  “Thank you for your kindness, my lady. I already feel welcome here, and we have but arrived.”

  “Then let us not tarry another moment,” said Inchkeith with delight, rubbing his hands together as if to warm them. “Be seated, good guests, and partake with us of our bread.”

  Inchkeith took Durwin by the arm and drew him to the head of the table with him, leaving Quentin and Toli in the care of the young women. They settled together across the table from the young men and all at once began talking, asking questions about what was going on at court, what the fashions were in Askelon, what news of the larger world they had brought.

  So inquisitive were they that Quentin could hardly keep up with their questions, many of which forced confessions of ignorance from him, as he knew less about some of their interests than they did themselves. Their questions spoke of a firm knowledge of the world and its ways, despite the seclusion in which they apparently lived. As the meal ended, he had formed the firm impression that this was by far the most remarkable family he had ever met.

  When they had taken their fill of meat and bread and broth and fruit, the sons of Inchkeith trooped off together, and the daughters, along with their mother, began helping the servants clear away the trenchers and serving vessels. Quentin and Toli moved to the head of the table, where Inchkeith and Durwin sat talking. Inchkeith had taken out a long pipe and was lighting it.

  “Though I am grateful for the pleasure of your visit, I know that you did not come just to see old Inchkeith. There is business to be done, aye?”

  “So it is.” Durwin nodded. “We do have some business to discuss with you.”

  The craftsman took a long pull of his pipe, his cheeks caving in completely. He blew them out again in a long, thin blast of smoke. “I like nothing better,” he said. “But perhaps your business is not so urgent that it will not wait until I have shown you some of my latest works.”

  “By all means,” urged Quentin. “I would very much like to see some of your achievements.”

  “You twist my arm, sir!” laughed Inchkeith, getting up from the table. “Follow me and you will see something to suit your fancy, I daresay.”

  They left the gleaming hall by a side entrance and were at once in a low, dim room where rank on rank of polished armor stood emptily at attention, waiting for their knights to lend them life. It looked the very armory of a king, so many swords, bucklers, helms, and breastplates did they see.

  Through this low-beamed room they came to another, smaller than the first and darker. It contained lances and spears of all sizes and description, and halberds without number. The long-shafted weapons were all bound together in neat piles like new-mown sheaves of grain, bundled and waiting to be threshed. In the gloom Quentin could see the steel points of lance and spear, and the smooth, sharp blades of the halberds glimmering as they passed.

  “Ah! Here we are. Watch your step. There. This is my only true home—my workshop,” shouted Inchkeith above a new din.

  For they had stepped down into a room warm with the fires of the forge and loud with the clangor of steel on steel. The room was easily as large as the great hall, if not larger, and it was filled with the bustle of industry as the sons of Inchkeith, and various servants, went about their work of forging steel and iron into weaponry. There were tables and odd-looking devices that defied adequate description all over the place, from one end of the oblong room to the other. At each table, and surrounded by curious trappings, a man labored over his craft: here a blade being affixed to its hilt and handle, there a wooden shield receiving its hide veering, and over across the way, a truncated knight was acquiring his breastplate.

  Quentin was dazzled by the display, for it was totally unlike anything he had ever seen. Inchkeith led them through the maze, pausing at each table to impart some finer point of craft to the workman there. And wherever the eye chanced to wander, it glanced upon a shi
ning example of the armorer’s art. Quentin doubted whether in all the world there was anything to compare with Inchkeith’s workshop.

  Quentin looked upon the table and saw, among an assortment of strange tools whose purposes he could but guess, a long, broad sword, a mighty thing, fully a span in length. The hilt was jewel encrusted and gold, and the scabbard was silver engraved with scenes of the capture of a bear. It was every inch a work of excellence and skill.

  “Do you like it?” asked Inchkeith, following Quentin’s gaze.

  “Like it? Sir, it is the most handsome of swords. A treasure.”

  “Here. You may examine it more closely.”

  With his left hand, and lamenting that he did not have the use of his right, he drew the sword from its sheath and heard the cool whisper of the sliding steel.

  It was made to be used with two hands; yet it was not much heavier than its shorter cousin and was superbly balanced. Even with his left hand Quentin could feel the lift of the blade and the almost effortless way in which it followed the movement of the hand. Quentin passed the weapon to Toli, who made it sing through the air; he saw the light of admiration leap to the Jher’s dark eyes.

  “The blade is of a special steel I have begun making. It will shear iron. This one”—he spoke as if it were but one fish of a thousand in his net—“I have made for King Selric of Drin. It is all but finished.” He carefully replaced the sword and turned to them with a twinkle in his eye. “Now I will show you my masterpiece.”

  Inchkeith hobbled from his table to a low, arched door set in a recess in the wall nearby. As he passed the end of the table, he took up a lamp and lit it from a taper. After adjusting it, he proceeded to heave aside the heavy bolt that secured the door. “This way,” he said, and he disappeared inside the blackened doorway.

  The three followed their stooped guide into a small, round chamber, and it was a moment before their eyes could adjust to the darkness and the dim lamplight. When Quentin raised his eyes, a gasp escaped his lips. Before him stood the most handsome suit of armor he could have imagined, but that alone was not what took his breath away.