The Warlords of Nin

by Stephen Lawhead

  “How little?”

  “Three days. Four.”

  “So we prolong the agony that much longer. No, I will not see soldiers weakened by thirst attempt to hold off the fall of Askelon. If Askelon falls, it must be on the field of battle. If the end is to come, let it come. But let us have our wits about us, and let us die with our swords in our hands.

  “We can at least give these barbarians a fight they will long remember. This Nin will live to regret the day he set foot upon the soil of Mensandor, even if every one of us perishes.”

  This fiery speech of the king greatly heartened several of the lords in attendance. Rudd, Benniot, and Fincher had grown restive during the siege. Not men of patience, they itched to take up arms and meet the foe in a fair contest, even though—as greatly outnumbered as the king’s forces were—there was nothing fair about it and not much of a contest. Still, the idea of taking once and for all a stand worthy of brave men appealed to them. They were ready to fight.

  “What say the rest?” asked Rudd when he and the others had spoken their support of the king’s plan.

  Theido was slow in speaking, and as he stepped forward, all eyes turned toward him. “Sire, what you propose is the last desperate act of desperate men. I do not think we are pressed that far just yet. I say we should wait a few days. Much can happen in that time, and we are safe within these gates. The Ningaal have done their worst and have failed. I think we may yet prevail against them if we but wait a little.”

  “The time for waiting is over! It is time now to act.We have waited these many days, and we are no better for it. I am with the king; let us fight and die like men, since we have no better choice.” Rudd threw a defiant look around the room and gathered support for his position with his fearless tone.

  “I am much inclined to agree with you, Rudd,” said Ronsard. “And when the time comes to stand toe-to-toe with the enemy, you will find me in the foremost rank; but there is good counsel in waiting. Three or four days may mean much. The lords of the north may yet appear at any time, and we would do well to be ready in that event.

  “I say let the time be spent in readying ourselves to fight, but hold off fighting until we must.” Ronsard’s logic cooled several heads that had been hot to rush into battle that very moment.

  “What do you say, Myrmior?” asked Eskevar. “Your counsel has been invaluable to us these last days. Speak. Tell us what you would have us do.”

  Myrmior looked sadly at the king and at those around him. His large, dark eyes seemed wells of grief, and sorrow tinged his deep voice.

  “I have no counsel to give, my lord. I have said all I thought best, and it has brought us to this extremity. I will speak no more but rather take my place alongside these men worthy to be called your loyal subjects and raise my blade with theirs against the hated Nin.”

  The effect of Myrmior’s words was like that of a pronouncement of doom. He had said in a few words what most of them felt but resisted giving words to: There is no hope. We must prepare to die.

  “Sire,” said Theido, coming near the bed, “let us not act hastily in this matter. Let us rather withdraw from here for a time and search our hearts before pressing for a decision.”

  Rudd, too, stepped up, shouting, “And I say we must not wait. Every day we stand by, our men will grow weaker and our chances worsen. Now is the time to strike!”

  The room fell silent as everyone looked to the king to see what he would do. “Noble lords,” he said gravely. “I will not force you to a decision. Neither will I tax you further with waiting which can belabor a man’s spirit.”

  They all watched intently. Theido noticed the set of the Dragon King’s jaw and knew what was coming before the words were spoken. “Therefore, I say that we will ride out tomorrow and engage the enemy, that what little advantage there may be in surprise we may carry with us. Go now and look to your men. See that they are well fed and made ready. Tomorrow at dusk I will lead them into battle.”

  The lords murmured their approval and left at once to begin preparing for combat. Theido and Ronsard lingered and spoke to the king in an effort to change his mind. But he turned a deaf ear to them and sent them away. After they had gone, Queen Alinea came in to spend one last night at the side of her king.

  Eskevar had chosen dusk to lead the attack, because reports from his sentries had it that the enemy’s watch on the postern gate was reduced at that time, while the Ningaal took their evening meal. It was a bold move and a clever one. It was assumed that an attack by the castle dwellers would issue from the main gate—here it was that the warlords had positioned their greater strength in anticipation of such a move. The postern gate—being smaller, and the long, crooked ramp that led from it being walled and narrow—permitted knights to ride but three abreast.

  These things Eskevar took into consideration and decided the result was favorable. He would achieve a fair measure of surprise in such a maneuver, and he would catch the Ningaal unprepared and in the wrong position to begin a battle. They would mass quickly as the call to arms was given, he knew, but by that time he hoped to have his own men ranged upon the plain and ready, having already dispatched a goodly number of the foe.

  The Dragon King and his army spent the day preparing and positioning men and horses to move through the postern yards and through the gates as quickly as possible.

  When all was ready, a hush fell over the wards and yards where the men waited. The sun sank in the west, a great, crimson orb, and the Wolf Star shone fiercely in the east, shedding its cold, harsh light upon all who huddled beneath it. The villagers and peasants gathered to send their champions forth, and to pray to all the gods they knew for the victory. Women cried and kissed the brave knights; horses snorted and stamped their feet; children stood stiff-legged and stared round-eyed at the men in their glittering armor.

  At the far end of the ward yard, a commotion arose, and those at the near end craned their necks to see the banner of the Dragon King lofted on its standard and waver toward them as a path opened before it. And then there was the king himself, sitting erect upon a milk-white stallion that pranced in trotting steps toward the gate. Over his silver armor he wore a royal coat that had the dragon emblem worked in gold. His helm bore no crest but the simple gold circlet crown. Flanking him on either hand, two grim knights—one astride a black charger, the other riding a sorrel—gazed resolutely ahead. The shield of the dark knight bore the device of a hawk; the blazon of the other showed a mace and flail held in a gauntleted fist.

  Behind them rode Myrmior, who, after the fashion of his own people, wore no armor, but carried only a light, round shield and short sword. Ronsard, however, had prevailed upon him to don greaves, and a brassard for his sword arm at least. He had refused a helm, complaining that it was impossible to see out of the iron pot.

  They passed through the yard to the gate, followed by ranks of nobles and knights three abreast. When they reached their position, the king raised his hand and the procession stopped. He looked to the gatekeeper, who, peering down from the barbican, nodded in return, declaring that the Ningaal had moved off the gate, leaving only a small force to watch. Then Eskevar, his face gray and hard, his eyes gleaming cold in the evil light of the star, drew his sword with his right hand. It whispered softly as it issued from the scabbard, but the sound soon filled the ward as the movement was repeated a thousand times over. The heavy iron portcullis was raised and the plank let down over the dry moat. And the Dragon King rode out to battle.

  The Ningaal at the postern gate were scattered as chaff on the threshing floor. Several of them foolishly drew their weapons and were cut down before they could lift their hands; the rest ran howling to sound the alarm that the defenders had broken free and were in pursuit.

  Eskevar turned the attack not toward the town, where the main body of the enemy waited, but to the more lightly manned cordon that had been thrown around the castle. This tactic proved successful, for the thundering knights easily routed the ill-prepared foe and
dispersed a great many who could have formed a second front if given the chance. No sooner had this been accomplished than the knights wheeled to face the charge sweeping down around the castle rock behind them.

  The full force of Eskevar’s army met this hastily assembled attack and drove through it with little hurt. They then moved quickly on to thrust into the larger of the Ningaal’s many siege camps, where several thousand of the enemy had gathered to eat and sleep that night. The sight of three thousand knights charging through their camp banished all thoughts of food and slumber from their barbarian minds as the camp instantly became a boiling cauldron of confusion and terror.

  The Ningaal were caught unaware; the alarm had not reached them before the knights’ fierce attack. In moments the scene was one of fire and blood, rearing horses and slashing blades. Many of the Ningaal fled from the camp rather than face the fierce justice of the king’s swords. And for a fleeting moment it appeared to the defenders that the Ningaal would be overcome and crushed.

  But that notion faded with the appearance of two warlords astride black warhorses, rallying their panic-stricken troops with cool control.

  The knights had encompassed the camp and had driven through the center of it. Seeing the warlords bringing their scattered regiments together, Eskevar sent a company of knights against them to quell that opposition before it could materialize in force. The rest strove to keep the Ningaal running and confused, not allowing them time to coalesce into a unified front.

  But too soon the body of knights surrounding the camp was outflanked by a larger ring of bellowing Ningaal led by the two other warlords. These began pressing forward, pushing the knights inward, shrinking the diameter of the circle by force of superior numbers. It seemed that no matter how many of the enemy were killed, there were more standing than had been there before.

  Eskevar realized that the position was indefensible. With Theido on his right and Ronsard on his left, the Dragon King led a withering charge toward a weak section of the circle. There was a tremendous clash, and many knights fell into the wall of Ningaal axe blades, never to rise again. But the circle bowed and broke, and the king led his soldiers out upon the plain.

  When they reached a place in the center of the plain half a league from the castle, Eskevar halted and turned to face the enemy, which was now massing for the final assault.

  54

  The warlords, perceiving that the victory was theirs to be won, did not rush at once to the attack. They waited, gathering their forces and ordering their troops for the final conflict. This gave the Dragon King time to position his knights as well, placing them in stout ranks around scores of footmen with pike and spear who had joined them from the castle.

  The first clash with the Ningaal found the Dragon King ready and waiting at the forefront of his army. The bellowing mob, with battle-axes swinging, rushed down upon the Dragon King’s forces from the upper plain, led by two warlords. The two remaining warlords held a vast number of their foul flock in reserve.

  Amut and Luhak rode with the charge and were met with a wall of steel. The Dragon King’s knights, fighting with a strength born of desperation, held the line against the warlords’ fearsome bodyguard and reduced that number effectively. The Ningaal axe men boiled onto the field like a tempest-driven flood. Though they beat against the armored knights with terrible blows of their cruel axes, the defenders withstood all.

  Thwarted and repelled, the attack broke off and the warlords withdrew—to the cheers of the knights—leaving the field with the blood of their fallen.

  Theido, astride his charger on the king’s right hand, lifted his visor and looked over the battlefield. “We have made a good account of ourselves,” he said. “What is more, we have not suffered much loss.”

  “Even one man is too many in this fight,” Ronsard retorted from his place at the king’s left hand. “Do you fail to see it? They mean to wear us down one by one to the last man.”

  “By Azrael!” said Eskevar. “It is the only way they will take Askelon. But we are far from defeated yet. And I have a plan that may confound them. Theido, gather the commanders. I would speak to them before the next attack.”

  They met on the field, and the king spoke hurriedly, finishing just as the rolling whoop of the advancing enemy once more filled the air. As the Ningaal closed on the defenders for the second time, there was a stirring within the king’s army, and the attack met not a solid wall this time, but a rank that gave way before them. The enemy was instantly drawn inside the ring, like water into a flask, and then the stopper replaced, cutting off the axe men from their leaders, who were now inside. Thus the battle began with the Ningaal herded together within a palisade of stinging blades.

  No one in the enemy’s camp noticed the small force that broke away from the rear of the Dragon King’s army and made its way back to the castle.

  Once more the king’s knights stood to the task, hewing down the enemy before them. The pikemen worked among the flashing hooves of the horses to bring the warlords’ bodyguard down, where they were pierced with spears. The Ningaal axe men, separated from their commanders within the palisade, ran screaming around the outer ring, throwing themselves ineffectually upon the unforgiving lances of the knights.

  Warlords Gurd and Boghaz, watching from a distance, soon realized what had happened and readied a second wave to smash the outer ring of the king’s defenses, and thus lay open the battle for a speedy end.

  Mounted upon their sturdy black steeds, they swept down into the fray. They had nearly reached the field of combat when their attack faltered and broke apart amid a deadly flight of arrows. The Ningaal fell in such numbers that the warlords pulled up short of engaging the king and swerved to meet the archers who were now running to join their comrades on the plain, having staved off the second wave. The archers, who had been left behind to defend Askelon in its last need, were led by Myrmior and several of the boldest knights. They had been sent to bring the archers as part of Eskevar’s plan to divide and confuse the enemy.

  The charging Ningaal could not draw within blade range of the archers and were at last forced to retreat and regroup. The archers reached the plain with ease, and the air sang with their killing missiles. Within moments of their arrival, the Ningaal withdrew once more and left the field to the Dragon King.

  “We have not fared so well this time,” said Theido, once more surveying the carnage around him. “We have lost many good men. Perhaps too many to withstand another charge.”

  “Withstand we must!” shouted Eskevar. “We must hold.”

  “We have surprised them twice. I do not think we will again,” said Ronsard. “But we have stood them a battle that will be sung in the halls of brave men everywhere. That is something to take with us. Yet I begin to think that if we last this day, we may yet turn the tide of battle in our favor.”

  “If Wertwin were as good as his word and brought the armies of Ameronis, Lupollen, and the others with him, I would agree with you,” said Theido. He turned his eyes to the north but saw nothing on the horizon. “But even if they came now, I think it would be too late.”

  “Do not talk so!” charged the king. “We will prepare to meet the attack with courage.”

  “As you say, my lord.” Theido looked at his king, and his noble heart swelled within him almost to bursting, for he seemed to see a dark shape, like the wings of a raven, hovering around the king’s shoulder. When the knight spoke again, it was with a voice choked with sorrow. “You have ever shown us courage, my king. Lead us, and we will follow through the gates of death itself.”

  Eskevar’s face shone fierce in the strange white light of the star, shining as bright as day. But when he spoke, it was with a gentler tone. “You have served me well, brave friends. I have trusted you with my life on more occasions than a king ought, but I have never found you wanting.” He stopped and looked at each of them before continuing.

  “This is how I want to be remembered—turned out in my finest armor at the head of
loyal men and brave. This is how I would enter the rest of my fathers.”

  Ronsard raised a hand to protest, but Eskevar waved him silent. “Enough of dying,” he said. “Now to arms! For the enemy once more draws near.”

  Across the broken battlefield, now slippery with the blood of the dead and dying, the Ningaal advanced, slowly this time, behind a vanguard of horsemen with flaming pikes. The four warlords had positioned themselves so as to command a phalanx of troops ahead and behind them. This time there would be no force held in reserve, and there would be no tricks, for they moved over the plain step by step, wary of the slightest shift among the soldiers of the Dragon King.

  The baleful Wolf Star burned down upon the scene with its hateful light, bright as noonday sun, casting shadows all around. It seemed to grow larger and to fill the sky, making the forlorn moon rising in the east a pale and insignificant thing.

  Eskevar turned his face to the Wolf Star. “Surely that is an evil thing. I feel its fire in my bones. How it burns. Ronsard, Theido”—he turned to them both—“do you feel it?”

  “It is the heat of battle I feel, Sire,” offered Ronsard.

  “Aye, that too,” agreed Eskevar. The king seemed to come once more to himself and looked out across the battlefield, now rolling in the smoke of the fiery pikes of the Ningaal.

  “If they think us slow-witted enough to wait here like cattle for the slaughter, they are mistaken,” said Eskevar as he glared out over the field. “Assemble the commanders!” he called. A trumpeter sent the message ringing in the air.

  “We will charge them there—in the center,” said the king, pointing with his long sword toward the advancing body of the enemy. “We will show them how the knights of Mensandor value their lives.”

  “Aye,” agreed the gathered lords, their armor battered and bloody but their faces still eager in the light of the hateful star.

  “And we will show them how the knights of Mensandor value their freedom,” shouted Rudd. “For glory!” The nobleman raised his voice and led them in a rousing battle chant.