The Warlords of Nin

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “‘When mountains sleep, sharp vigil keep; you shall see the way most clear.’”

  “Yes, I have seen it! The sword fell from the sky and disappeared into the falls.”

  “I thought you were not listening, but that is very good. Yes, and it fits, too. ‘When you hear laughter among the clouds.’”

  “I heard it. The waterfall sounded like laughter.”

  “Some laughter!” shouted Inchkeith. “I can hardly hear a word you are saying over the roar!”

  Quentin ignored the remark. “‘Among the clouds’ . . . See how the mist forms the clouds. What else could it be?”

  “Hmmm, yes,” agreed Durwin. “‘And see a curtain made of glass.’”

  “The water is a curtain!” cried Quentin, his face shining and eager in the white light. “‘Take no care for hand or hair,’” he recited, thrusting out his hand. “It is wet!” He rubbed his hand through his hair. “And my hair is dripping, and so is my cloak. I am soaking wet.”

  “So it is!”

  “We are all soaking wet, and fools for it!” grumbled Inchkeith.

  “‘Divide the thunder and seek the narrow way,’” continued Durwin. “Go through the waterfall? Do you suppose?”

  “Of course! Yes! That is what I have been trying to tell you.”

  “‘Give day for night, and withhold the light, and you have won the day,’” quoted Durwin. He looked around. “Well, it is night. But it could also mean that the entrance could only be seen in the darkness or that entering the mine in darkness would—”

  “I see it!” called a faint voice somewhere above them.

  “Toli!” said Quentin. “Where is he?”

  The three looked around, but could see the plucky Jher nowhere. He had disappeared while they were puzzling over the clues of the riddle.

  “Here!” he called again. They looked to the falls and suddenly Toli was there, stepping out of the tumbling water as from behind a shimmering curtain. He seemed to be standing on the sheer rock face of the cliff, or walking on the mist. “Come up here. Do not mind the water!” he said, and disappeared again.

  Quentin was already running after him. Durwin and Inchkeith traded doubtful stares. “It seems all chances of a peaceful night have vanished,” sighed Durwin.

  “And a dry one,” grumbled Inchkeith. “We may as well have our bath and be done with it.”

  The two followed Quentin around the rocky edge of the pool at the base of the falls, where the water gathered churning and bubbling to spill into the stream that fed the pool in the center of the valley. The rocks were wet and slippery, making the way slow and laborious for the two older men. Quentin fairly skipped over the rocks and soon came to stand at the edge of the plunging torrent. Durwin saw him smile, look back over his shoulder at them, and then step into the churning water.

  In a few moments they heard his voice calling down to them. “Do just as I did. I will wait for you.”

  “After you, good hermit,” said Inchkeith. “I will follow in your wake. It’s only fitting. This is your expedition, after all.”

  “So it is!” said Durwin. He took a deep breath and stepped into the glassy curtain of rushing water.

  43

  Courage, men!” Theido cried. “Fight on! Our deliverance is near!” The trumpet sounded a valiant note, piercing above the din of battle and the shrieks of the combatants.

  And then a voice called out from above on the hill behind them. “It is the Dragon King! He has come! The Dragon King has come! We are saved!” The trumpeter, his grinning features shining and eyes wide with wonder, raised his trumpet once more and began to blow a strong and steady note of hope.

  Those below him on the hill heard his words and turned their eyes to the dim wood beyond. A murmur passed among the beleaguered defenders like a spark through dry kindling. “The Dragon King is coming! We are saved! The Dragon King!”

  Theido, too, raised his eyes to the wood. Faintly, as in a dream, he saw the glitter of gold and scarlet flicker among the shadowy branches of trees like dancing light. And then suddenly he saw it full and fair: the writhing, angry dragon, the king’s blazon, floating swiftly toward them, darting through the trees.

  Others saw it, too. “The dragon! The king!” they shouted. And the dark wood rang with the sound of trumpets and the crash of knights on horseback surging through the forest. The Ningaal, surprised by this unexpected turn, fell back, breaking off the attack. One warlord wheeled his troop around to face the battle on the newer front. For a moment the Ningaal were divided.

  “Strike, bold knights!” cried Ronsard. “Strike! Now!”

  The knights, bruised and beaten and greatly reduced in number, surged ahead upon the points of their swords and sheer determination. The Ningaal before them, unable to meet the attack from both sides at once, scattered like leaves before the storm. In moments the stalwart band of defenders was surrounded, not by the enemy, but by comrades-in-arms. The bloodied knights lifted their swords with weary arms and cheered their king, while the fresh forces of the lords of Mensandor charged into the confused Ningaal.

  Theido and Ronsard, battered and bleeding, stood leaning on their swords. “You are alive, thank the gods!” They looked up and saw Eskevar grinning down upon them from his great white charger.

  “Yes, we had all but given up hope,” said Ronsard. “But Theido here thought differently.” The knight turned to his friend. “Another premonition?”

  “No—well, perhaps in a way, I suppose. At first I thought it might hearten the men to hear our trumpet sound the call. And if there was a chance that anyone was passing near, they would hear and come to our aid. Where I came by that idea I cannot say.”

  “However it was,” said Eskevar, watching with knowing eyes, “your clarion guided us to you forthwith.” He jerked his head around, and Theido caught a glimpse of the man that used to be—eager, strong, and quick to the heart of the battle. “You and your men fall back through the wood. We will take these and put an end to it here and now.”

  “Sire!” The voice was Myrmior’s; he came running up from the thick of the fighting. Theido and Ronsard had not seen him since he had stood with them on the hillside. Once again he had unhappy news. “The Ningaal across the river are swarming over the barriers, now there are no archers to hold them back. Do not think you will crush them so easily. Even now they are working to gain advantage on two sides.”

  “What?” Eskevar wheeled his mount around and rode a few paces away. In a moment he was back. “By the gods! These warlords are cunning wolves.”

  “Unless you have brought more men with you than I see, I suggest we retreat while we have the means and the strength to do so.”

  Eskevar glared at the panting seneschal. The afternoon light slanted sharply through the trees, but served only to heighten the dimness of the battlefield, most of which lay under gathering shadow. Clearly he did not like the idea of retreating from the first contact with the enemy; it rankled his fighting spirit. But his head wisely overruled his heart. “As you say, Myrmior. Theido, Ronsard, get your men behind us and take yourselves away toward Askelon!” The king shouted this last order over his shoulder as his charger sprang away.

  Theido and Ronsard gathered the tattered remnant of their once-powerful force and left the field. The shouts and clamor died away behind them as they pushed back through the forest along the path Eskevar and his knights had forced through the wood. Though bone-weary and no longer able to lift their swords, the knights doggedly placed one foot in front of the other and dragged themselves away.

  After they had walked nearly half a league, the forest thinned, and they came to a fresh-running brook. There they stopped to kneel and drink. Several of the knights among them knelt down, but could not rise again. Others stood teetering on their feet, afraid to stoop lest they, too, be unable to overcome the weight of their armor and succumb to exhaustion.

  “We must press on,” said Ronsard, casting a worried eye around him. A few soldiers had splashed acros
s the creek and now lay gasping on the other side. “If we tarry much longer, they will bury us here.”

  “If we had horses, we would have a chance,” Theido said. “When Eskevar sounds the retreat, they will soon pass us by. A knight on foot is no knight at all. This armor was not made for marching.”

  “I do not welcome the thought of being left behind when the army comes by. But look, Theido,”—Ronsard pointed across the brook to a clearing where a line of wagons rumbled toward them—“you have only to speak your mind and it is done. Today is your day, my friend.”

  “It certainly seems so.”

  In moments Eskevar’s surgeons were scurrying among them, removing gorgets and breastplates, greaves and brassards and mail shirts, attending to the wounds of the knights. The armor was collected by squires and taken to the waiting wagons. Other knights began calling for squires to come and help them strip off their armor, and once unburdened, they splashed their way across the brook and made for the meadow.

  The sun was westering when Theido and Ronsard stepped into the lea. They had waited until all their men had been tended and had either walked out of the forest or had been carried out and placed in a wagon. Just as they stepped out of the wood, a cheer went up from the soldiers. Looking around, they saw several men leading horses. Unbelievably, they were their own chargers—the animals, separated from their riders during the fight, had headed toward home and had been collected by the squires. Many of the knights found their own mounts; others took the mount of a fallen friend.

  “Be mounted, men!” shouted Ronsard happily. “To Askelon!”

  They turned and rode west through the forest once more and were joined by the first of Eskevar’s retreating army, grim faced and sullen. Soon knights were streaming from the wood. Theido identified the devices and colors of the various lords: Benniot’s silver-and-blue double eagle; Fincher’s gauntlet of gray on a crimson field, clasping thunderbolts of white; Rudd’s red ox on sable; Dilg’s green oak above the crossed maces on a yellow field.

  “I do not see Ameronis, Lupollen, or their party,” said Theido.

  “Nor do I. Perhaps Wertwin will convince them yet. Let us hope so in any case.”

  Theido swiveled in his saddle. “Where has Myrmior got to? I would thank him for his valor and sharp wit on the field today.”

  “His will be the last blow dealt, if I know him at all.” He turned in the saddle and spied a rank emerging from the wood. “Here, Theido! Yonder comes Eskevar, and, yes, Myrmior is with him, and the lords.”

  In a moment the other lords had caught the two knights. “Is the enemy pursuing?” asked Theido.

  “Yes,” answered Rudd unhappily. Clearly he did not like retreating any more than the others, probably less. “But they are afoot for the most part. If we continue, we should outdistance them shortly.” He issued a challenge with his eyes to the others around him. “I say we should rally in the wood ahead and wait for them. We could—”

  “We could foolishly allow ourselves to be cut to ribbons in the night,” said Myrmior savagely. Fire glinted in his dark eyes. He was angered and turned his horse away from the others and rode away after glaring at those around him defiantly.

  “He speaks the truth,” sighed Eskevar. “We have underestimated this enemy from the beginning. We will do well not to try doing it twice in one day. Retreat to Askelon is the only cure for our malady, my lords. We will have little enough time to prepare for a siege; let us make best use of it.”

  The march back to Askelon was somber and silent. It was dark when the army reached the plain below the castle, and though the moon had not yet risen, the ominous Wolf Star was burning brightly, shedding a chill light upon the land. That night the armies of the Dragon King felt the sting of that cold light. All regarded it bleakly, and strong men quaked inside with fear, for they knew an evil day had come.

  44

  Stepping through the waterfall was like stepping through a glass curtain. At the extreme edge where they entered, the tumbling water did not have the force it did in the center of the falls. Once through, the explorers found stone steps cut into a rock face that inclined away from the vertical plunge of the mountain wall. And though the steps were wet, and slimy with black moss, each was carefully carved, wide and broad so that with care no one need fall.

  The steps led up under an overhanging roof of rock to a landing of sorts—a natural bartizan. There Durwin and Inchkeith found Quentin and Toli waiting for them as they came lumbering up the stairs.

  “This is the lost mine, the secret of the Ariga!” exclaimed Quentin, his voice sounding hollow in the great mouth of the tunnel. “Look!” His left hand pointed ecstatically toward the near wall. In the near-total darkness Inchkeith looked and saw strange figures carved in stone, glowing with a pale golden light. He could not make them out; they appeared to be shapes of letters in some unknown hand. But looking at them made him think of men and mountains and the waterfall churning and rivers and trees and the fullness of the earth.

  Durwin stepped to the wall and began tracing the inscriptions, which were deeply carved and looked fresh, as if the scribe had just laid away his chisel. The lines were straight and well formed, untouched by the weather or age.

  Durwin began to read. “‘These Are the Mines of the Ariga, Friends of the Earth and All Living Things.’” Durwin turned to the others, smiling. “There seems no doubt but that we have found what we seek. Shall we go farther or wait until daylight to bring our provisions and tools up here?”

  It was a needless question. The piercing look of bright expectation on Quentin’s face, and Toli’s quiet excitement, were enough to answer. “Very well, we can start at once. But we will need a light first. Someone must go back for the torches, so we may as well bring all the supplies at once.”

  Quentin’s face fell a fraction. “Toli and I will go. You and Inchkeith may stay here, and we will return at once.”

  Before Durwin could suggest another plan, they were off, dashing down the slippery steps of the falls two at a time. “We may rescue some sleep from this night yet,” observed Durwin with a yawn. “They will be gone a goodly time. We may as well rest while we can. I think it will be our last for a long while to come.”

  They settled down against the far wall, and Durwin fell asleep almost at once. Inchkeith pulled his coat around him and breathed the cool, musty air of the deep earth that rose up from the mine shaft somewhere away in the blackness beyond. But sleep had abandoned him completely; he was wide awake and could not take his eyes from the wonderful inscription shining softly from the opposite wall. Even though it merely marked the entrance to a mine—such an ordinary thing—Inchkeith thought he had never seen anything so inexplicably beautiful.

  A shout brought both men to their feet. Durwin rubbed his eyes. “So soon? So it is! I feel as if I just dozed off. How did they manage so quickly?”

  He and Inchkeith hurried, with careful dignity, down the steps to the filmy curtain of water and stepped out into a night fading into a pearly dawn. The quick splash of cold water brought Durwin fully awake. “Brrr! Such a rude awakening!” he sputtered, clambering slowly down the rocks like an animal roused from hibernation.

  Quentin stood untying bundles from a horse, and Toli was leading the other, loaded down with packs and tools. “I should have guessed,” said Durwin. “This night their feet would have wings. Well, let us begin. Our labor is before us.”

  Inchkeith only nodded. He had been strangely silent since entering the mine.

  In another hour’s time they had carried up all of the provisions and tools they would need. Quentin, with only one useful arm, had carried the most, making more trips than the others, so eager was he to begin the search. He had no idea what lay in the depths of the mine below, but it greatly heartened him to be once more where the Ariga had been and to see again the works of their long-vanished hands. Being here, his thoughts turned upward toward Dekra.

  They piled all the baggage in the mouth of the mine and began divid
ing up the packs they would each carry. Inchkeith insisted on carrying his fair share, despite his deformity. Durwin allowed that he would need his strength to forge the sword and therefore should conserve his energy while he could—the way would be difficult enough. But Inchkeith would have none of it. In the end he gathered up his various implements, saying, “I carry my own tools, at least. No one touches this master’s tools but the master himself.” The anvil, bellows, and heavier items belonging to the forge were left behind at the mine’s entrance. The party was finally ready.

  “Now, one thing more and we will begin,” Durwin announced. “While I light the torches, I want each of you to go back outside and look at the valley in the dawn. Unless I am far wrong, it will be some time before any of us sees the light of day again. I want you all to fill your hearts with a pleasant memory against the time when darkness crowds our way.”

  They all went outside and gazed upon the bright green bowl of the peaceful valley. The morning light struck the curling mist with a golden radiance, and the mountains seemed crowned with flames of red gold. Shennydd Vellyn lay smooth and deep and undisturbed, mirroring the limitless blue of a clean morning sky brushed with the lacework of wispy white clouds.

  The thin mountain air smelled sweet and fresh, vastly different from the dank, stale air of the mine. Quentin, though he appreciated Durwin’s suggestion as a wise one, was anxious to be off. While he gazed about him intently, his mind was so full of new excitement that he saw little. When they finally turned to go back into the mine, Toli was the last to tear himself away from the beauty before him.

  One by one they ascended the tumbled rocks, wet with spray. One by one they approached the thunder of the falls. One by one they parted the shimmering curtain and stepped inside, into the darkness of the fabled mines.