The warlords of Nin dk-2

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Say not so, my Lord!” pleaded Alinea. “You have not yet recovered enough strength to abide the saddle.”

  “Go if you would, Sire. It is your pleasure. But in going you risk missing the return of your envoy. And where would you begin searching for them?”

  Eskevar threw a wounded look at the hermit. “What am I to do? I cannot remain here forever, waiting while the enemy grows stronger.”

  “No one has seen an enemy,” pointed out the Queen. Eskevar turned on her with a growl. “You think he does not exist? He does!” He thumped his chest. “I can feel him here. He is coming-I can feel it.”

  “All the more reason to wait. Gain your strength. The action you seek will come soon enough if you are right.”

  King Eskevar fell back into his chair in frustration. His noble countenance seethed with dark despair. He thrust his hands through his hair. “Mensandor cries out for her protector, but he sits abed and quakes with fear. Who will save us from our weakness?”

  “Leave him now,” said Alinea, taking Durwin and Bria aside. “I will tend him. This is the duty of a wife and Queen.”

  “By your leave, my Lady. I will withdraw to my chambers. Send for me should you need anything.” Durwin took Bria by the arm and drew her from the room.

  “I have never seen him thus,” said Bria, her voice quivering on the edge of tears.

  “It is a most difficult time for him, and he is not a man much accustomed to difficulty. But worry not on it. For I saw signs of his spirit returning. He will be the Dragon King once more.”

  The great hand closed over the small white body of the bird. There was a flutter of tiny wings and a surprised chirp as the hand withdrew from the cage. The dove struggled weakly, its head poking through the circle formed by the giant thumb and forefinger. A small red-ringed eye stared in terror at the contorted face of the mighty Nin.

  Nin the Immortal felt the swift beating of the tiny heart and the dove’s soft warm body filling his hand. Then he squeezed. The bird squirmed and cried out. Nin squeezed harder. The yellow beak opened wide; the tiny head rolled to the side. Nin, whose fleets stretched the breadth of Gerfallon, opened his hand slowly. The bundle of feathers in his hand shivered and lay still.

  With a cry of delight, Nin the Destroyer flung the dead bird across the room where it landed with a soft plop near the door of his chamber. A flurry of white down floated gently to the floor to settle like snowflakes around the lifeless body.

  As Nin sat gazing at his handiwork a chime sounded in the passageway beyond, followed by the ludicrous sight of Uzla’s head peering around the edge of the door.

  “Immortal One, I bring news.” The minister’s eyes strayed to the small white lump of feathers on the floor before him.

  “Enter and speak.” Nin’s great voice rumbled.

  Uzla tiptoed quietly in and prostrated himself before his master.

  “Rise. Your god commands you. Speak, Uzla; let your voice utter pleasing words of worship to the Eternal One.”

  “Who is like our Nin? How shall I describe his greatness? For it is more brilliant than the shining deeds of men, and his wisdom endures forever.” Uzla lifted his hands to his face at if to shade his eyes from the piercing rays of the sun.

  “Your words please me. Tell me now, what is your news? Has Askelon been taken? I am becoming impatient with this waiting. Tell me what I wish to hear, Uzla.”

  “My news is perhaps better suited to a different time and place, Most Noble Nin. I know not of Askelon, but may it be as you say.”

  “What, then? Tell me quickly-I grow tired of your foolishness.”

  “The commander of your fleet below Elsendor sends word of victory. The ships of King Troen have been destroyed, and the battle on land is begun.”

  The great hairless face split into a wide smile of satisfaction; the flesh of his cheeks rolled away on either side like mountains forming alongside a deep chasm. His dark baleful eyes shrank away to tiny black pits, and his chin sank into the folds on his neck. “It is well! How many prisoners were sacrificed to me?” The room shook with the ringing joy of the thunderous voice.

  Uzla’s look transformed itself momentarily into one of dismay. “I know not, Infinite Majesty. The commander did not say, but we may deduce, I think, that it was a very great number. It is ever thus.”

  “True, true. I am pleased. I will have a feast to celebrate!”

  “May I dare to remind the Supreme Light of the Universe that it is Hegnrutha? There is already a feast tonight; it is being prepared even now.”

  “Ahh, yes. How suitable. Go then and bring me word when all is in readiness. And command the slaves to ready my oil bath; I will be anointed before the celebration begins. My subjects will fill their eyes with my splendor tonight. It is my will for them. Hear and obey.

  Uzla fell on his face once more and then backed out of the room. His brittle cadence could be heard moments later calling the slaves together to prepare the fragrant oils in which to bathe their sovereign.

  Nin raised his round moon of a face and laughed; the deep notes tumbled from his throat to reverberate to the furthest corners of the enormous palace ship. Those who heard it shuddered. Who among them would be asked to provide for the Immortal One’s amusement tonight? Whoever chanced to serve that honor on the night of Hegnrutha likely would not see another morning.

  TWENTY-TWO

  THE TOWER of flames leapt high into the night, pouring itself into the vast darkness above, blotting out the stars in the scarlet glow. Quentin and Toli, tethered to the wagon’s wheels, could feel the heat of the enormous bonfire on their faces, though they were well removed from the blaze. As the flames soared skyward, the wild revel rose on its own wicked wings, taking the form of a thing fevered and inflamed.

  The tumult had grown steadily through the evening hours, and now the surrounding woods echoed with the crazed ravings of the celebrants. The raging mass seethed about the fire in gyrations of ever increasing frenzy. To Quentin and Toli, looking on in mute wonder, it seemed as if something had taken control of their spirits and played them as a maddened minstrel striking his instrument in tortured ecstasy.

  Quentin saw, in the glare thrown out by the fire, something moving in the darkness beyond the perimeter. Through the shimmering sheets of heat loosed by the fire he could see it lumbering slowly like a colossal beast, a dark shape which seemed to form itself out of the darkness surrounding it.

  “Look yonder-there across the way,” he whispered to Toli. Quentin did not know why he had bothered to whisper-their guards were not even making a show of watching them. They had given themselves over to the festivities of their comrades, though they still sat at their posts, longing to join in the turmoil.

  “What is it? I cannot make it out.”

  “Wait, it is coming closer.” No sooner had Quentin finished speaking than the creature emerged from its dark captivity into the roiling circle of light. It loomed large in the dancing light, the glow of the flames glittering on its hideous black skin. It was a creature of terrible beauty, awful and tremendous; it looked a very denizen of Heoth’s forsaken underworld, a thing distilled out of a thousand nightmares. And it came lurching out of the forest into the midst of the celebrants, as if it had been called up from the depths of its underworld home to reign as lord over the foul Hegnrutha.

  At first Quentin believed it to be alive, but as the thing moved closer he saw that it was in fact pulled along with ropes by a hundred or so of its keepers, who clustered about its feet. At last they brought it to the fire’s brink, where it stood with hands outstretched in a perpetual blessing or curse.

  It was a statue-an immense carven image of a beast with the legs and torso of a man, the head of a lion and the maw of a jackal. Two giant curving horns swept out from either side of its head, and its mouth was open in a snarl of rage.

  “It is their idol,” said Toli, his eyes filled with the sight before him. He fairly shouted, for at the sight of the towering idol the frenzied scene below
had erupted in a climax of insane exuberance. The ground fairly trembled with the pandemonium. Their two guards lumped up and began dancing where they stood, waving their arms and screaming with enravished abandon.

  Now more wood was being thrown around the base of the statue, and it was being induced into the flames. As Quentin and Toli watched the flames encircle the monstrous idol, a shadow detached itself from among the myriad flickering projections and crept toward them along the perimeter. In a moment, without sensing anyone was there at all, Quentin heard a rasping whisper in his ear.

  “I am going to cut your hands free. Do not move.”

  Quentin did as instructed and felt his bonds fall away. His right arm swung limply down; he gathered it up with his left hand and held it close to his chest. Without waiting for further instruction, he rolled to cover beneath the wagon.

  The three met, heads together, under the shelter of the wagon box. Toli rubbed his wrists and asked, “Why are you doing this?”

  There was a brief flash of white in the darkness as the warlord’s emissary smiled. “They are my captors, too. I have long planned to escape, but if I am to survive I will need the help of those who know this country.” He looked at both of them, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “Time is short. We must go.”

  Away from the wagons there was little chance of discovery. There were no sentries on this night, but there were several smaller groups of revelers gathered around smaller fires at the edges of the camp, and others could be heard crashing through the woods in hysterical rapture. Their screams tore through the night, leaving little doubt in Quentin’s mind of the reality of the animal spirits to which this night was devoted.

  The three crouching figures worked their way around the rim of the camp, darting furtively through the mingling expanses of light and darkness. In the trees around them, the huge elongated shadows cavorted in grotesque mummery as the savage rites progressed unabated.

  It was slow work threading through the circle’s outer ring, but at last they managed to reach the shelter of the wood where the shadows gathered over them like a cloak. “I have hidden our horses just there.” The seneschal nodded into the further darkness beyond. “I was able to retrieve your steed-” he looked at Quentin-“but yours could not be found.”

  Toli grinned and replied, “It was not my horse-I took it from among the others at tether.”

  Even in the dark Quentin could see their guide’s eyebrows arch upward in surprise and his eyes shine in amused disbelief. “Then I was right about you two after all. You are not without considerable resource yourselves. I have chosen my partners well.”

  The air seemed cooler in the woods and they moved with increased confidence, though the dell rang on every hand with the howls and shrieks of the celebrants of Hegnrutha. The familiar woodland seemed now a desolate place given to the homeless shades who wandered the nightlands.

  Quentin shivered inwardly and fought to keep pace with the others. By the time they reached the horses, waiting patiently in a small cone-covered draw, Quentin was panting and weak. The modicum of strength he had been able to scrape together was nearly exhausted.

  “I know a way out of the wood, if you will follow me,” said the emissary. “Then it is I who will follow you.”

  “Very well,” said Toli. “Lead on.”

  The two mounted quickly and wheeled their horses to the north and away from the camp behind them. Toli cast a quick look over his shoulder and saw Quentin hanging from the saddle with one hand, too weak to climb onto his horse.

  “Wait!” shouted Toli, slipping from his mount. “My master, I am sorry… I should have realized…”

  “No-I will be all right. Just help me into the saddle.”

  In the moonlight softly filling the draw Toli saw the film of sweat glistening on Quentin’s brow. “Ride with me; I can take us both.”

  “Once we are away from here I will be all right,” insisted Quentin. “Hurry, now. Help me into the saddle. There is no time to argue.”

  Toli caught his master’s foot and hoisted him onto the mount. He could see that Quentin’s right arm dangled uselessly from his shoulder. Quentin grabbed the reins with his left hand and drew his right across his lap to tuck it beneath his cloak.

  “Let us away,” he said hoarsely.

  Toli sprang to his mount and they were off, the horses clipping over the furze and heading into the wood. Blazer seemed none the worse for his adventure, thought Quentin, relieved to be in his own saddle once again. At least with Blazer he did not need two hands to ride-the horse would anticipate the commands of his rider Quentin had only to hang on; that was something he desperately hoped he would be able to do.

  In a moment they were in the deep wood where the thick columns of trees broke the silver moonlight and scattered in slivers all around. Behind them, like the voices heard in dreams, the cries of the revelers wailed on, diminishing rapidly as distance and the thick growth of the wood cut them off. It is a dream, Quentin imagined as he chased the elusive shapes before him, flitting in and out of shadow and light-an awful dream that will be forgotten upon waking. But the sting of the occasional whipping branch and the bracing freshness of the night air on his face was only too real. He knew this was one dream that could not be shaken off in daylight. The nightmare was real, and it had come in force to Mensandor.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “IT IS TIME something is done,” the High Priest of Ariel said to himself as he paced his bare cell. “It is time to act.” The thick candle guttered in the swirls stirred up by Biorkis’ passing to and fro. A stack of parchment scrolls teetered precariously upon the table, clustered and rustling like autumn leaves in the breeze.

  “It is time… it is time,” he said, heaving himself through the door of his cell and into the darkened passageway beyond. He ran through the empty temple and passed through a side entrance used only by the priests. He hopped across a moonlit courtyard and through a narrow portal in the wall, then stood alone on the edge of the plateau and looked out across the silent valley below. He turned and cast his old eyes, still sharp as blades, toward the eastern sky.

  The moon was overhead, but in the east a star blazed brightly-more brilliant than any of its sisters. And round the glowing star a film of light seemed to gather, streaming out from the star’s core. The portion of the night where that star was fixed shone with pale radiance, and wherever the eye roamed in examination of night’s black dome it was drawn back to that star-the Wolf Star.

  “Yes! Yes, it is time to act,” shouted Biorkis. His voice echoed back to him from the empty courtyard and the temple colonnade beyond the wall. He turned, fled over the jumble of rocks and swept back through the courtyard and into the temple once more. He made his way, puffing along on short, stout legs, to one of the temple’s many summons gongs. He picked up the striker and, pausing one final instant for reflection, banged it into the gong several times in quick succession.

  “That will bring them running,” he said, and he was right.

  In a moment the vestibule was filled with sleepy priests who rubbed their eyes and groaned at the disturbance to their slumbers.

  “Fellow-priests!” Biorkis’ voice sounded loudly in their sleep-dulled ears. He shouted on purpose to bring them fully awake. “My bed has remained empty these two nights running; you can bear with me just this little while. I wish to speak to you.” There were groans among the general body of priests.

  “What is this, Biorkis? Why have you called us from our devotions?”

  “Your snoring vespers are not important,” Biorkis snapped at his insolent questioner. “It is time to act! The star which shines without, growing bigger with each passing night-I know now what it means.”

  “And this could not wait until morning?” The speaker was Pluell, the under-high priest, his own assistant. He at least had the privilege, as Biorkis had once had, of questioning the High Priest.

  “I think not. It has waited too long already. While we have blindly contemplated its mean
ing at our leisure, the star has grown large, and with it the strength of the evil it betokens. Mensandor is under siege by forces from far countries. The world we know is trembling on the brink of destruction.”

  There was a murmur among the priests. Pluell bent to confer with several of his brothers. “I am surprised to hear that you are so concerned, Biorkis. It is not like you at all. You are the one who has ever instructed us of the folly of considering the commerce of mortal kings and their petty concerns.

  “It does alarm me to hear you speak so now. Should we not draw aside, you and I, and discuss this together?”

  Biorkis bridled at the suggestion. “Why, Pluell, do I sense in your tone the shriek of ambition? Why should not our brothers hear what I have to say?”

  The under-high priest stepped toward his mentor, placing a hand on his arm as if he would lead him aside. “This is not the time to display such ill-founded airs before our assembled brothers. Come aside. You are tired and your vigil has made you somewhat-shall we say, irrational.”

  “Irrational indeed! I have never been so lucid in my long and eventful life. But I do not understand your manner at all. Why do you look at me so?”

  “It is late, brothers. Return to your cells and to your rest. We will no doubt have a more fruitful discussion tomorrow.”

  Some of the priests made as if to leave; others stood hesitantly, uncertain whether to stay or go as instructed.

  “I am High Priest!” shouted Biorkis angrily. “Have you forgotten? All of you stay where you are and hear me! I propose to send King Eskevar word of our discovery.”

  “Your discovery, Biorkis. You cannot expect us to endorse it, surely.” Pluell’s voice was smooth, and there was not a trace of sleep or fatigue in it.

  Suddenly Biorkis realized what was happening: Pluell’s overreaching ambition, long held in check, was now released. He was making his move to take over the High Priesthood. Biorkis trembled with rage as the realization knifed through him. What a fool I have been, he thought. While I have lain awake seeking an answer to the riddle of yonder star, he has been scheming for my rod.