Nin’s soldiers were crossing in masses now, a hundred at a time. They staggered muddily to the ford and plunged in, then flung themselves up the far bank like fish flopping out of water.
Another warlord appeared, surrounded by twenty horsemen. He waited, as the other had, watching the men cross the stream, and then splashed across.
The forest echoed to the sound of something ponderous and heavy crashing through the underbrush. The wagons! thought Theido. Get ready!
The wagons were what they had been waiting for. According to Myrmior’s knowledge of the movements of the Ningaal, they most often traveled with their weapons and supplies in the wagons, half of their troops going before and the rest after. It was the second half of the Ningaal host that the defenders would attack.
Theido peered cautiously through the man-high ferns to see the first of the heavy wagons mired nearly to its axles in the hollow, now trampled into a swampy bog by the hundreds of feet of men and horses that had passed before. Around each wheel twenty or so footmen grunted and strained to push the wagon along, and the four-horse team leaned into the harness to the cracking whip of the driver.
Theido’s hand sought the hilt of his sword. He knew that even now a thousand arrows were being notched to their strings in anticipation of the signal that would not be long delayed. Each archer readied his cannikin of live coals and arrows with shafts wrapped in cloth soaked in palbah—flammable spirits. Myrmior, seeing Theido’s unconscious move, placed a hand on his arm and whispered, “Not yet. Give the others time to move up into position, and allow those who have passed on to distance themselves from the ambush.”
Theido took his hand away from his sword hilt and drew it across his perspiring face. He let his breath escape between clenched teeth.
The Ningaal, by sheer force of numbers, had succeeded in hauling their wagons to the brink of the ford, but now other wagons were entering the hollow and succumbing to the morass. Shortly, the hollow was filled with wagons hopelessly enmired and hundreds of soldiers clustering around them in an effort to budge them along.
“Now!” whispered Myrmior shrilly. “Do it now!”
Theido drew his sword silently and stepped calmly from the ferns. He raised his sword, knowing that all eyes were now on him. He dropped his arm, and suddenly the air was filled with a sound like an enormous flock of birds taking flight from the treetops. The dim air of the dank dell was instantly alight with darting flames arcing to earth like stars falling from on high.
A confused cry of alarm went up from the unsuspecting Ningaal as the flaming arrows found their marks: the wagons. In moments the wains were afire and the befuddled soldiers were overwhelmed with terror. The Dragon King’s archers then hailed down arrows upon the enemy without mercy. Ningaal dropped where they stood, never seeing their assailants nor hearing the sting that felled them.
The rout had only begun, however, when it was turned by the appearance of the two remaining warlords. One came pounding out of the wood, his bodyguard with him. Shouts rang out and orders flew, and in moments the chaos had resolved itself, though still the larger part of the Ningaal did not have weapons, confined as they were in several of the burning wagons.
That was soon remedied. A group of soldiers, in response to one warlord’s command, rushed upon one of the burning wagons, jumped into the flames, and began hurling weapons to their comrades. When one was overcome by fire, another leaped in to take his place.
The other warlord with his mounted bodyguard pointed his sword across the stream, and his warriors came galloping across the ford toward where Theido and Myrmior waited with a dozen knights. Arrows took two from their saddles at midstream. Another came on, and Theido found himself suddenly ducking savage thrusts that chopped the ferns and sent greenery flying.
He threw up his sword to parry the slicing blows and grabbed the enemy horse’s bridle, pulling its head down. The animal went to its knees, and Theido lunged at the rider, knocking him from the saddle. Theido’s poniard did its work before the warrior could disengage himself from his thrashing mount.
The murky wood now rang with the sound of battle. Men shouted their battle cries and fell to with a fury. Swords struck upon shield and helmet; axes whirled and bit, splintering anything that sought to stay the deadly blades. Theido stepped away from the riderless horse beside him and saw a dozen Ningaal axemen splashing toward him—some screaming, the handles of their axes still smoldering in their grasp.
He caught the first one in the throat as the warrior raised his axe. But he had not withdrawn the blade when a second was upon him. He saw the glint of the blade swing up, and he raised his shield, expecting his arm to be crushed by the impending blow.
But the blow never came. Theido dodged aside and saw Ronsard’s familiar face beside him, grimly determined, his sword streaming with blood as the wounded man at his feet writhed in agony. Behind Ronsard a host of knights stormed out of the wood where they had been concealed.
“I will take a warlord!” shouted Ronsard, leaping into the saddle so recently vacated by the rider at Theido’s feet.
The lord high marshal cut down two charging Ningaal as he flew across Deorkenrill; the dark water now bore the corpses of the enemy by the score.
The warlord, wearing a helm of white horsehide with a plume of a horse’s tail, whirled his mount around to meet Ronsard’s charge with lively skill. Ronsard’s sword flashed and flashed again; each time the warlord met his thrust and turned it aside. Neither could gain the advantage, and soon Ronsard, surrounded by enemy footmen, was forced to break off the attack and scamper once more across the stream lest he be hauled from the saddle and stabbed through a crease in his armor.
The archers poured their arrows upon the battlefield in a deadly rain. Flight after flight streaked down, and Ningaal fell by the score. The unhappy waters of the Deorkenrill flowed red with the blood of the dead. And on the far bank—that slimy incline of a death trap—the fallen lay like corded wood. In the quagmire of the hollow, the living surged ahead over the bodies of their comrades.
Myrmior had planned the fight well, and the Ningaal struggled in vain to gain the advantage. Myrmior dashed along the far bank, calling out orders and strengthening the position of the defenders where necessary and directing the archers to new and threatening targets as they emerged from the dim wood. Had there been more time, or had the Dragon King’s forces been larger, it would have turned out a day of victory for the stouthearted defenders. But it was not to be.
A mighty shout went up from behind the defender’s position. It rang in the dell like thunder, and even the most dauntless among the knights felt his blood chilled. It was the howl of the raging Ningaal who had passed over Deorkenrill, now returning, summoned by the sounds of battle. In moments the Dragon King’s forces were surrounded and would have been swept away instantly; but Myrmior, ever alert to the unexpected, had saved one last trick.
The bearded seneschal, heedless of danger to himself, mounted a small hillock on the far bank and there stood waving his hands. At first it seemed there would be no response to his signal; no one seemed to heed the commander presenting himself so foolishly in the thick of fighting. But then there came a groan as if the earth were rending, tearing out its very bowels. A hush fell upon the startled invaders as they stopped still to listen and look around them.
In the silence another gargantuan groan trembled the earth, and another, filling the wood with an eerie thunder accented by shuddering pops and horrible creaks as if some ancient beast were shattering the bones of its gargantuan prey. And then the sky itself seemed to pitch and sway.
The first tree crashed to earth square upon the bodies of a troop of Ningaal too startled to move. Their comrades dodged aside, screaming, only to be met by the second tree, which fell at an angle to the first and stilled many voices as its branches crushed and pinioned all beneath it.
To the terror-stricken Ningaal, it seemed as if the forest were crashing down upon them. Many dropped their weapons and fled ba
ck across the river and into the forest, where they were dispatched with arrows. The third tree crashed down across the ford and blocked the retreat of those who sought to return once more the way they had come. A cohort of defenders chased the fleeing Ningaal and slew many as they ran screaming through the wood.
The terror inspired by this last trap was short-lived, however. Soon the iron-willed warlords had their men back in close command. With terrible efficiency the warlords bore down upon the sturdy knights, cutting through their faltering defenses, and the tide of the battle turned against the Dragon King’s forces. Still, though outmanned and exhausted, the staunch knights held their own through the middle hours of the day.
Teams of Ningaal, some with axes and some holding shields over their heads, began cutting down the trees wherein archers lay hurling death at those below. Thus protected, the Ningaal were able to fell the trees, if not completely stop the archers, who escaped at the last moment by swinging away on the ropes they had concealed among the vines. But the menacing warlords turned their attention to the armored knights now pulling their lines together along the far bank.
“It is time to flee,” said Ronsard breathlessly. He was bleeding from a dozen shallow wounds, and his face, beneath the blood and grime, was gray with exhaustion. “We have done all we can.”
Theido nodded. “Go now. Lead your men away. I will remain behind to cover your retreat and then follow you as soon as you are free.”
Myrmior appeared, white-faced and holding his arm while a crimson stain spread down his sleeve. “It is too late, my lords. Alas! I have just made a last survey of our position. We are surrounded on all sides. There is no escape.”
“We are completely cut off ?” asked Ronsard. The strength seemed to go out of him, and his sword fell to his side.
“I feared as much. There are just too many of them.” Theido turned his grim face away and called in a strong voice for the defenders of the realm to rally to him and prepare to make their dying stand.
In a few moments the remnants of the exhausted fighting force were dragging themselves together around the hillock where Theido stood with upraised sword. The Ningaal fell back to gather their numbers for the final onslaught. For a brief moment the clangor of battle died away.
“Brave knights of Mensandor,” said Theido, “you have fought well this day. You have proven the honor of your king and country. Your courage this day will be sung by men as long as deeds of valor are remembered.” The knights, some kneeling around him, raised their faces to his. Theido continued calmly.
“Let not the moment of death cheat you of the honor you have earned. It is but a little hurt, and then will come rest and sleep, and you will never again know pain. Have no fear, and stand boldly to the end.”
“For glory!” shouted a knight.
“For honor!” shouted several others.
“For king and kingdom!” shouted a chorus led by Ronsard, who came to take his place at the head of the warriors.
The knights raised themselves to their feet, lowered their visors, and turned to meet the enemy for the last time. The Ningaal, watching them from every side, paused for a moment. Then the four warlords raised their curved blades, and with a ferocious cry the Ningaal sprang forward once more into the fray.
“It’s better over quickly,” said Ronsard as the attackers swarmed them. “I have no regrets.”
“Nor I, my friend,” answered Theido, “though my heart is heavy at the thought of our country falling before these barbarians. But I have done all any man can.”
“Good-bye, brave friend,” said Ronsard. “Is this the dark road you warned me of ? How long ago it seems now.”
“It well may be. But wait!” He turned and mounted the crest of the hillock. “Trumpeter!” he cried. “Sound your call! Sound it until your last breath! Do you hear? Sound it, I say!”
He turned, his face shining and eager once more.
“Fight on!” he cried, throwing himself into the clash. “Fight on!”
Ronsard plunged after him, guarding his left, and the two men drove ahead, swords singing in the air as if they would single-handedly drive the invader from their shores. The knights around them, heartened by the example of their dauntless leaders, put their shields together and dug in. If death came now, it would find them brave soldiers to the end.
42
Quentin rose and stood looking across the polished surface of the Skylord’s Mirror. The deep of the night was upon the fair valley, and the moon now crouched low behind the western peaks of the Fiskills, firing their snowy caps with a white brilliance that reflected in the fathomless lake. Also reflected with startling clarity were the myriad of stars burning like pieces of silver fire in the black vault of heaven’s dome. The bright green of the valley was now gray in the subtle moonlight, and the leaping falls flowed down like liquid light, sending their ghostly mist to curl and eddy on the night air.
Across the distance Quentin could hear the falls splashing among the rocks at their base in a sound like laughter carried on the wind. It was the only sound that could be heard, for the valley was silent. Toli, Durwin, and Inchkeith were asleep, wrapped in their cloaks; they looked like lumps of earth or stone, so still and silent did they lie.
How long he stood looking, Quentin did not know. Time seemed to hold no particular meaning in the valley. But Quentin was suddenly mindful of another sound, or rather the impression of a sound, which had been present for some time. Perhaps it had awakened him.
The sound was a thin, high-pitched tinkling like needles dropping onto a stone floor. Or, he imagined, the sound of ice forming on a winter pool—if one could only hear it. The sound seemed to be coming from far above him. He turned his face to the sky and saw the Wolf Star, now shining directly overhead, filling the sky with blazing light, a light so bright it cast shadows upon the earth. The light made him cold, and Quentin pulled his cloak more tightly around his shoulders; but he could not take his eyes off the star.
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 gr
oggily. “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.
The Warlords of Nin Page 29