The warlords of Nin

FORTY-THREE

“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 trumpter, his begrimed 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 boles and 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 on the points of their swords and sheer determination. The Ningaal before them, unable to meet an attack from both sides at once, scattered like leaves before the storm. In moments the stalwart band of defenders was surrounded, not by 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, in a way, yes. 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. I cannot say where that idea came from.”

“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, who 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 that 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 hereabout, I suggest we should retreat while we have means and 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 in 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 across 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, good 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 wains. Other knights began calling for squires to come 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 of 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 grey on a crimson field clasping thunderbolts of white; Rudd’s red ox on sable; Dilg’s green oak above 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 so hope in any case.”

Theido swiveled in his saddle. “Where has Myrmior got to? I would thank him for his valor and sharp wits 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.