The Warlords of Nin

by Stephen Lawhead

  “Go back to your men,” instructed Eskevar. “Be ready, and wait for my signal.” Eskevar took his place at the head of his knights. Theido and Ronsard stayed at either side.

  Theido, guessing the end was near, looked across to his friend Ronsard and offered a wordless salute. This was the long, dark road he had seen so long ago. Now that it stretched before him, he did not fear it, though it saddened him. He wanted to speak some final word to his friend, but none would come. The salute said all.

  “Farewell, brave friend,” said Ronsard as he returned the salute. He closed the visor of his helmet and raised the point of his sword to Theido.

  “For Mensandor!” cried Eskevar suddenly. His voice sounded clear and strong as thunder as it carried across the plain. He raised his sword and spurred his courser forward, and with a roar the army of the Dragon King leaped as one into furious motion.

  The shock of the clash as the charging knights met the stubborn Ningaal shook the earth. Horses screamed and wheeled, plunging and plunging again. Knights cut the air with mace and flail; swords flashed and spears thrust and bowstrings sang.

  Eskevar’s white stallion could be seen dashing straight away into the thick of the fighting. Ronsard, bold and bright, defended his king’s left with a tireless arm. Time and again the champion’s sword whirled through the air, dealing death with every blow. Theido guarded the king’s right and strove to keep himself between his lord and the bloodthirsty axes of the barbarian horde.

  Here and there amid the furious melee, the standards of the Mensandor lords could be seen, as the islands of defenders, surrounded by a sea of enemy fighting men, labored to remain abreast of one another. But one by one the standards fell, some never to rise again, as the long night of battle wore on.

  The daring attack of the Dragon King produced at length an unexpected result. So fiercely did the king’s army fight, and so well, that they succeeded in punching through the center of the Ningaal formation. Despite the enemy’s superior force, the defenders cut a wide swath through the heart of the warlords’ offensive and in time came together behind the Ningaal lines.

  “This is unexpected!” cried Eskevar, breathing heavily and leaning forward in his saddle. “Our cause is not yet lost. Look there! See, Rudd drives through to join us, and yonder Fincher and Benniot.”

  Theido looked at the swirling maelstrom before him and separated the shapes of the Dragon King’s knights from the darker forms of the Ningaal. The din of the fight rang loud in his ears, but he did not see the faintest glimmer of hope that the battle could be won, as Eskevar had said. Their charge had scattered the larger part of the Ningaal and had divided them like a wedge. The warlords of Nin circled around the outside of the battle storm and sought to rejoin their troops, but in vain. The enemy was falling away in droves.

  “Is it true?” shouted Ronsard, throwing his visor up to view the contest.

  “Yes!” agreed Theido. “See how they crowd toward the center—their own numbers crush them. If we direct a sally there, we can further divide them.”

  “Good eye, man! You are right. Trumpeter! Rally the men. Onward we go!” Eskevar urged his steed once more ahead, and the Ningaal felt the heat of his blade like a flame kindled against them. The king’s knights formed a spearhead that drove through the milling mass and cut it down. Ningaal warriors forgot their discipline and ran screaming from the battlefield in great numbers; their commanders slew many deserters with their own hands in order to stop the rout.

  This second charge was successful, and the defenders took heart that they might indeed carry the victory. With jubilant whoops and courageous battle cries, they stood shoulder to shoulder and fought, urging one another to greater deeds of valor.

  By the time the sickly moon had advanced two hours’ time, the army of the Dragon King had for the first time taken the upper hand in the battle. The warlords were fighting a defensive action, seeking a retreat whereby they could regroup their lagging regiments. But Eskevar and his commanders, though suffering from fatigue and the terrible attrition of their numbers, doggedly struggled on to put the invaders to flight.

  At midnight an entire Ningaal regiment broke and ran from the field. The sight of the beaten enemy dragging itself away from the combat greatly heartened the defenders, who sent a cheer aloft that reached Askelon and was echoed by the fearful refugees who peered anxiously from the battlements of the fortress.

  “We can seize the day!” shouted Eskevar. “The barbarians have lost the heart to win.”

  “Sire, let us pursue them and drive them from the field,” said Ronsard. “But you remain here where your soldiers can see you. Gather your strength.”

  “Yes, my lord,” agreed Theido. “Let your commanders earn some glory. Do not endanger yourself further. Rest a little and regain your strength.”

  Eskevar glared dully at his knights as he sat hunched in his saddle, unable to sit erect any longer. His visor was open, and his face showed white with exhaustion. He shook his head wearily and replied, “I will rest when the day has been saved—and not before. If my knights wish to see me, they must look toward the heart of the battle, for that is where I will be.”

  Theido and Ronsard exchanged worried glances. They would have preferred to have their king stand off from battle at least for a time. Theido was about to protest further when Eskevar closed his visor and jerked the reins, plunging once more into the clash. The two trusted knights had no choice but to surge after him and protect him however they could.

  For a moment it appeared as if this final assault would indeed shatter the Ningaal strength, for the howling axe men of the warlords melted before the defenders’ blades as snow before the flame. And for a moment the Dragon King and his knights stood unchallenged on the hard-won battleground as the enemy roiled in retreat.

  But the illusion of victory was fleeting, for there came a sound that seemed to tear out of the ground as if the very earth were rending. It filled the air and soared aloft to shriek across the plain. Those who heard it quailed in its presence; even the stoutest among them trembled.

  All eyes turned toward the south, and for the briefest instant the rolling smoke parted to reveal a solid wall of warriors stretching across the plain. Nin the Immortal had arrived with his fifty thousand.

  55

  The battle-weary defenders watched in horror as the conquest, so nearly won, dissolved in bleak futility, and certain doom swarmed in to take its place. The cheers of triumph turned to bitter wails of despair as the Ningaal, seeing their sure salvation, halted their retreat and turned once more upon the Dragon King’s battered army.

  Eskevar had but little time to rally his flagging troops before the enemy surged around them like a flood whose waters rose to overwhelm all. At once the hapless defenders were surrounded on every side and cut off from any possible retreat. The warlords urged their warriors to fight in a frenzy, and one by one the Dragon King’s brave soldiers fell.

  Ronsard and Theido fought to keep abreast of the king and protect him to the very end. But a sudden rush of the enemy swirled up before them and drove them apart.

  Three black-braided, howling Ningaal, mouths foaming, eyes wild and faces smeared with blood, leaped up and grabbed the reins of Theido’s mount. One of the attackers instantly lost a hand in a crimson gush; another dropped dead to the earth, his axe in Theido’s chest, and the knight felt the blade bite deep as his armor buckled and parted. He reeled in the saddle, falling back beneath the force of the blow, which would have killed most men.

  The Ningaal attacker, still clutching the haft of his axe, was pulled off the ground as Theido’s courser reared. Theido swung his buckler down upon the enemy’s head, and his opponent fell sprawling to the earth, where the warhorse’s flashing hooves made short work of him.

  Theido, by some miracle, remained in the saddle and wrenched the axe from the crease in his chestplate. He knew himself to be grievously wounded but turned to look for Ronsard and Eskevar. The current of battle had carried them f
ar apace. He saw Ronsard engaging four or five enemies with flaming pikes and swords, trying to keep them from reaching the king, when suddenly a warlord, charging into their midst with his black cape flying, struck into the fight.

  Instantly the warlord was met by the lightly armed figure of Myrmior. The seneschal, his face a mask of hate, thrust himself between the king and the warlord. Theido saw Myrmior’s sword flash in the starlight in a shining arc. The warlord raised his blade; Myrmior’s sword shattered with the force of his mighty blow. The warlord struck again and beat angry Myrmior’s shield. Theido watched, helpless, as the warlord’s cruel and curving blade flicked out and buried itself deep in Myrmior’s unprotected chest. Myrmior clutched at the blade with one hand and pulled, even as the warlord sought to withdraw it, jerking the battle lord forward in the saddle. In the same instant Myrmior brought his broken sword up and slammed it into the warlord’s throat. Theido then saw the two men topple to the earth.

  So quickly did this happen that Theido scarcely lifted the reins to send his mount forward and it was over. From his vantage point the knight saw Ronsard, who had killed three of his assailants, lurch away and drive once more to the king’s side. But in that momentary lapse, worlds were lost, for Theido, already pounding to his aid, saw Eskevar pulled from the saddle to sink into a boiling mass of Ningaal with pikes and axes.

  Ronsard reached the spot where his monarch went down first. He killed two with one stroke and four more in as many passes. Theido’s arrival sent the rest darting away as Ronsard, heedless of his own safety, flung himself from the saddle and knelt beside his king.

  Soon there were shouts all around. “The king has fallen! The Dragon King has fallen!” The defenders swarmed to his side, forming a wall around the body of their beloved ruler.

  Ronsard held Eskevar’s head in his hands and carefully removed the king’s helmet. “It is over, brave friend,” Eskevar gasped. “I shall lift my blade no more.”

  “Do not say that, Sire,” said Ronsard, tears seeping out of the corners of his eyes to run down his broad cheeks. He tore off his own gauntlet and thrust a corner of the king’s cloak into a bleeding wound at the base of Eskevar’s neck.

  “There is no pain . . . no pain,” said Eskevar, his voice a whisper. “Where is my sword?”

  “Here, Sire,” said Theido, placing his own weapon into the king’s grasping hands.

  Eskevar clutched the weapon to his breast and closed his eyes.

  Those watching from the castle ramparts and battlements saw the king fall, and a cry of grief and dismay tore from their hearts as from the throat of a mortally wounded beast. But the cry had not yet died in the air when someone shouted, “Look to the east!” All eyes turned their gaze eastward, where the forlorn watchers beheld a strange and wondrous sight.

  It appeared to those watching, and to the soldiers crouching over the body of the Dragon King, that lightning flashed out of the east with the brightness of the blazing sun, for there was a sudden blinding flare that seemed to fill the sky, outshining even the light of the Wolf Star.

  Another burst of brilliant light struck the sky, and surging Ningaal paused to look up from their bloody work to view with alarm this new marvel.

  Suddenly all anyone could see was the form of a knight on a white horse bolting out of the east. In his upraised arm he carried a sword that blazed and flashed with living light.

  All the earth seemed to fall silent before the approach of this unknown knight. The thunder of his charger’s hooves could be heard pounding over the plain as he flew as on eagle’s wings into battle.

  “Zhaligkeer!” someone shouted. “The deliverer has come!”

  A murmur swept through the ward yards and towers of Askelon. Alinea, Bria, and Esme, holding vigil in the eastern tower, looked out through tearful eyes to see this strange sight. The soldiers of the Dragon King, standing shoulder to shoulder around their fallen lord, raised their visors in astonishment.

  The sword in the knight’s hand seemed to cast a beam of light toward heaven as he rode swiftly onward. The Ningaal, amazed at this unheralded apparition, looked on with gaping mouths. Even Nin, Supreme Deity of the Universe, struggled to his feet from his throne upon his platform to better see what was happening.

  Quentin, astride the speeding Blazer, saw the remnant of the Dragon King’s army surrounded by the enemy upon the plain. With Toli at his side, he had no other thought but to rush to their aid and take his place beside them. In his dash he had seen the standard of the Dragon King fall beneath the flood of the enemy. He had then drawn his sword and with a battle cry he launched himself straight toward the place where he had marked the banner’s fall.

  Zhaligkeer burned with the brilliance of a thousand suns, throwing off bolts of lightning that seared the air. For the Ningaal, transfixed by the unearthly vision, this was too much. Unafraid of bold earthly warriors, they were terrified at the appearance of this heavenly foe. The barbarians threw down their weapons and fled before him. Quentin drove into the center of the reeling horde and rode untouched into the midst of the Dragon King’s awestruck army.

  Quentin glanced down and saw his friends Theido and Ronsard kneeling over the body of Eskevar. He read the sadness in their eyes and knew that the Dragon King was dead.

  Without a word Quentin wheeled Blazer around and leaped after the fleeing Ningaal. An unspeakable grief seized his mind, and Quentin had no thought but to drive the hated enemy before him, to ride until he could ride no more, to the sea and beyond. In his mindless grief he drove straight toward Nin the Destroyer and his fifty thousand panic-stricken warriors. The Ningaal parted before the invincible knight with the flaming sword, as waves before the tempest.

  Quentin saw nothing distinctly; it was as if he had entered a dream. Pale shapes moved before him, rolling away on either side like clouds; the night sky was filled with a burning white light. Then there was a darkness before him that rose up in a seething mass.

  Zhaligkeer flashed in his hand. Quentin raised himself in the saddle and flung the sword skyward with a mighty shout. The sword spun in the air, and it seemed that as it reached the apex of its arc it suddenly exploded with a blinding crack that showered tongues of fire all around.

  The sky went white, and every man threw his hands before his face to save his eyes. It seemed to Quentin that he entered his vision, for he was once more the knight standing upon a darkling plain, wearing the shining armor and lofting a blazing sword that burned into the heart of the darkness gathered about.

  There was a shudder in the air, and he felt the fire rush through him. Though the lightning danced blinding waves around him, he opened his eyes and saw the darkness roll away, revealing a city splendid and beautiful, shimmering in the light as if carved of fine gold and gems. The exquisite sight brought Quentin off his horse and onto his knees.

  He threw his hands before his face to blot out the vision, and the tears came rising up as from a spring. In that moment he felt in his inmost soul the hand of the Most High God upon him.

  When Quentin raised his head, he was alone, and the night was dark. The Wolf Star had disappeared in a great flash. Some said that the Shining One had reached up into the sky and smitten the star and extinguished it, for it vanished in the same instant that Quentin had thrown the sword.

  Zhaligkeer had fallen to earth and was found buried to the hilt in the obscene body of the Immortal Nin. The Conqueror of Kings lay dead, pinned to the ground like a serpent. His unhappy minions, witnessing the swift miracle of their cruel lord’s death, fled screaming over the plain. Their pitiful cries filled the night as they sought to escape the justice that would soon overtake them. The warlords of Nin fell upon their swords and joined their loathsome sovereign in his well-deserved fate.

  Quentin returned to the place where Eskevar lay. Together with Theido and Ronsard and the lords and knights of Mensandor, he picked up the body of the king and, lifting it upon his shoulders, bore it away to Askelon.

  56

  The funer
al of the Dragon King lasted three days, and his mourning continued for thirty. During this time Wertwin and the armies of Ameronis, Lupollen, and the others arrived—greatly saddened and contrite, for the news of the king’s death had overtaken them on their way. They were in pursuit of the Ningaal who were fleeing back along the Arvin toward the sea, where their ships still waited. The lords slew many of the enemy in their flight, and the rest were driven into the sea at lance point.

  Eskevar’s body was taken at once to the castle, where it was placed upon his own bed. Durwin, aided by Biorkis, came to minister to the body, washing it and composing it for entombment. Inchkeith worked long hours over the king’s armor, pounding out the dents inflicted upon it in the last battle and shining it bright as new. Queen Alinea herself dressed her husband in his finest garments; Bria and Esme adorned him with his most treasured jewels. And then he was taken to the great hall, where he was solemnly laid upon his bier.

  The king’s body lay in the great hall for two days, guarded by a sorrowful contingent of knights and nobles throughout the day and night while a steady procession of tearful subjects filed past the litter. The miserable, wailing peasants filled the ward yards, and afflicted citizens roamed the streets of the town, inconsolable with grief. The great Dragon King had passed; no one had ever thought to see that dark day.

  Quentin remained in his chamber and would see no one. He did not even venture to the battlements to watch the funeral pyres of all the brave dead of the king’s proud army as they burned upon the plain. He held himself to blame for the king’s death, reasoning that if he had arrived but a few heartbeats sooner, Eskevar would still be alive. Quentin would neither eat nor sleep, but sat slumped in a chair before the darkened, empty hearth.

  At midnight on the second day, Quentin bestirred himself and crept quietly to the great hall. The mourners had gone, and no one lingered in the hall except the ten knights standing as statues of stone around the body. Torches burned on standards at the four corners of the bier, casting a soft, hazy light over the pall. Quentin moved closer, mounting the flower-strewn platform to kneel beside the body.