The Warlords of Nin (51 page)
“This is how I want to be rememberedâturned 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”âhe turned to them bothâ“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 thereâin 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.
“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 centerâtheir 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 savedâand 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.
T
he 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 far 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.
