The Warlords of Nin

  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 though 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.

  “It shall not be, viper!” Biorkis shouted. His unexplained outburst brought wondering stares from the assembled priests. “Take your hand from me! Hear me, brothers. I am high priest, and long have you known me. When have I ever proposed a thing unwisely, or brought dishonor to the god whom we serve?”

  There were doleful looks all around and much foot shuffling. No one ventured to speak. Pluell fumed silently at Biorkis’s right hand, his eyes narrowed with hate.

  “Why should the suggestion of a message to the king cause such concern for some of our brothers?” As he spoke, the high priest gazed about him and recognized some who must belong to Pluell’s faction. He knew he was fighting now at a great disadvantage, but his heart warmed with anger, and his thoughts became crystalline.

  “What does anyone have to fear of my sending word to our monarch? Unless there is a reason why they would keep all knowledge of events to come to themselves. Unless they would remove the high temple from its place as servant to the subjects of the realm.”

  Pluell laughed, but there was no mirth in his voice. “How you do go on, Biorkis. There is nothing at all to prevent your communication with the king if you like.”

  “Of course not. I am high priest. A journey to Askelon is within the authority of my sacred vows, for I will it to be so. I would grant this same authority to any who served me in the matter.”

  “Why not go, then, and make the trip yourself ?” Pluell hissed.

  “I? I am too old, and a younger man could travel faster. I will set my seal to a letter to be carried by one whom I will choose.”

  “I do not think you would find any who would as eagerly cast aside their vows as you would have them.”

  “They would not violate their vows. I have already said as much—why do you persist in this?” Biorkis felt suddenly weak and sick. Somewhere—though Biorkis had not seen it—the crafty Pluell had turned the discourse to his advantage. The high priest knew he was doomed, though he could not see how.

  “Who better than the high priest to go and speak to a king? Let your own lips bear your tidings.”

  “Very well,” said Biorkis angrily. “I will go. Who will come with me?” He glared around the circle of bewildered faces.

  No one volunteered.

  “What? Will no one accompany the high priest on this arduous journey? I could order all of you to go!”

  “Maybe now we should come aside and talk,” suggested Pluell once more. He seemed to glow with satisfaction.

  “I have nothing more to say to you!” Biorkis raised his rod and brought it down with a crash upon the stone floor at his feet.

  “As you will, brother. Then I have no other choice but to inform the priests of Ariel of the transgressions committed by the high priest and ask for their recommendation.”

  “What transgressions? Name them—I am not afraid. In all my life as a priest I have ever been faithful to my vows and to the god.”

  “You force my hand. Hear then, all priests,” Pluell said, nodding to a priest who had drawn close. The priest handed over a scroll that Pluell took and made a great show of unrolling. In a strident, accusing voice, the under-high priest began reading off a list of imaginary crimes that Biorkis was alleged to have committed against the temple and his vows. The priests looking on appeared divided; some nodded their agreement with the charges; others wore looks of astonishment and disbelief.

  When Pluell was finished, he turned to Biorkis. “What do you have to say to these indictments?”

  “Azrael take your indictments! There is no truth in them; any who know me can tell you that. But I do not think it matters at all what I say; you have already made up your mind how this will end. Get on with it.”

  Pluell turned to the assembly and with his easy and unperturbed manner said, “You have heard with your own ears that he will protest the charges no further. There is but one recommendation we can bring: Biorkis is to be stripped of his priesthood and a new high priest should assume his duties. Biorkis is to be cast out from among us. Are there any who would gainsay these recommendations?”

  The room was silent as a grave. No one moved a muscle.

  The moment passed, and Pluell, speaking with calm assurance in a voice tinged with false sadness, turned to Biorkis. “I am sorry it had to end this way. It would have been better for you to have gone away alone while you had the chance. I would have spared you this indignity.”

  “Don’t spare me, foul friend! I will go at once, but hear me before I leave, all you priests of Ariel.” He gazed at each man, many of them close friends who turned away from his burning stare in shame for their silence. “Evil has this night entered this temple. It will destroy each one of you if you do not pluck it out and cast it aside at once.”

  In response to a signal from Pluell, four temple guards came forward with torches. They took Biorkis by the arms.

  “I am going,” the high priest shouted. “But remember my words, all of you. The land is fallen under a shadow. Soon no place will be safe—not even the High Temple of Ariel. If you will not follow me and do what must be done, at least look upon the one whom you have chosen, and know him for what he is.

  “The people of the realm will seek your protection and bid the gods to defend them. You will not be able to do it, for your prayers will not be heard.”

  “Take him away!” shouted Pluell. “He is raving again.”

  The guards moved to take Biorkis out; the great wooden doors of the temple were already swinging open. The night air blew in among the assembled priests as a sudden chilling reminder of Biorkis’s dire predictions.

  The temple guards hauled their former leader down the long stone steps of the temple and pushed him into the courtyard. Biorkis stumbled a few steps away and then turned toward his accusers, who had spilled out upon the steps to watch him go. The white-haired old man raised his rod of office, which the guards had neglected to wrest from him, and said in a voice strong as cutting steel, “The end of this age is upon us. Look to yourselves for your salvation; the gods will not help you. This temple will not stand!”


  So saying, he threw the rod to the ground, where it burst into a thousand pieces. Then he turned and hobbled off into the night.

  24

  If ears do not deceive, the enemy lies encamped in yonder wood.” Ronsard leaned heavily on the pommel of his saddle, staring down onto the wooded plain below them, black and forbidding in the moonlight.

  “I cannot think what else would raise a clamor like that,” replied Theido; he, too, was tired and arched his back to stretch weary muscles. Ronsard’s knights had dismounted and now walked to draw the stiffness from their legs. Only Esme seemed as fresh as when they had begun so early that morning.

  “What rites require such observance?” wondered Esme as she listened to the horrific din emanating from the wood. The rattling screams pierced the waning night like the cries of the tortured and dying.

  “We can but guess, my lady. But perhaps it is the better for us. We may creep closer while they spend themselves in savage revel.”

  “If Quentin and Toli are down there, we will find them,” said Ronsard resolutely. “We may as well make a start.” He tried his sword in its scabbard; the blade slid easily, flashing a glint of silver in the moonlight. He turned to Esme. “My lady, would you care to remain here until we return for you? It would ease my mind.”

  “Have no fear for me, brave sir. I will do my part. You might need what little service I can render. My arm is not as strong as yours, but my blade is sharp as a serpent’s tooth and quicker still.”

  “As you wish; I shall not discourage you. It does seem most apparent that you can take care of yourself. Follow, then, and do what I direct.” Ronsard flicked the reins and called to his knights, “Be mounted. We will approach the wood single file. Keep blades and shields covered. We will leave our horses in the wood and come to the camp on foot. If all goes well with us, we may escape undetected.”

  “Lord Ronsard!” shouted one of the knights. “Someone flees the wood as you speak. See—there. Along the gully beyond those trees.”

  “I see it!” replied Theido. “Yes! There are three of them. Do you think . . . ?” He looked at Ronsard hopefully.

  “It would do to find out who they are, at least.” He watched the three figures riding away from the wood with some speed; they were pale shapes floating over the gray sea of long grass just above the black line of a dry watercourse some distance away. “I think we may meet them just there.” He pointed with a gloved hand toward a bed where the gully swerved around the base of a hill. “Come, let us see who it is that flees the foul host by night.”

  Quentin clung to the saddle by force of will. He felt drained and used up. All strength had been wrung out of him in the escape. Now he let Blazer have his head and concentrated merely on keeping himself upright in the saddle, knowing he could not go on much longer; soon he would have to stop and rest. But he thought if he could last until daylight, they would be far enough away that stopping would not endanger them.

  So he clutched at the horn of his saddle and hung on as Blazer jounced and jostled along. To his dazed mind it seemed as if he had entered a dream in which hills and sky and woods became his pursuers, crying after him with shrieks of rage and fury. He fled them through gray mists on a horse that flew like the wind, but could not outpace the pursuit.

  In his waking dream he saw an army emerge from the hills above them to come sweeping down upon their flank. The dream-knights came thundering to intercept them; he could see their faces hard in the moonlight, and could feel the hot breath of the horses on his face as they drew nearer as if by magic.

  But there was something odd about the dream; he shook his head to clear it and looked again—the dream remained. Quentin peered intently, forcing himself to see clearly. But again he saw the force of knights moving down the hillside toward them.

  “Toli!” he cried, lurching in his saddle as he flung his good arm out to his side. The Jher glanced quickly over his shoulder and dropped back to Quentin’s side. “They have found us!” he shouted. Toli jerked his head to where Quentin was pointing, and his startled look confirmed at once that it was not a dream. They were being chased.

  He gave a shrill whistle that brought the seneschal around, and at once all three riders turned their horses to the shoulder of the hill beside them.

  Blazer’s hooves bit into the soft earth and flung it skyward as his powerful legs churned. The horse stretched its back and fought its way up the slope of the hill. Quentin threw himself down along the horse’s neck in an effort to maintain his precarious balance.

  Now he could hear the hooves of the strange knights’ horses thundering closer, and he thought he heard a shout. Bending low, he looked along Blazer’s flank behind him and saw that two riders descended into the shallow gully. Another leaped it and came on.

  In that moment of inattention, Blazer spurted ahead and stumbled over a rock protruding from the hill, throwing Quentin sideways as he fought to regain his feet. Quentin’s fingers, so tightly wrapped around the pommel, were wrenched free, and he felt himself sliding backward over the rump of his mount. His injured arm flailed uselessly as his good hand grabbed for the bridle strap. He was not quick enough. Almost before he knew what was happening, he tumbled out of the saddle and landed on the hillside.

  On impact the air rushed out of his lungs, and the night suddenly flashed in a blaze of brilliant stars, their scintillating rays stabbing through his brain. He rolled over, breathless, fighting to force air back into his lungs. He pushed himself up on one knee and threw aside his cloak, which had wrapped itself around his arm. With a shock he realized that he did not have a sword or a poniard with which to defend himself.

  He heard someone shouting and looked up the hill to see Toli wheeling around to come after him. But it was too late. When he turned again, the first of their pursuers came pounding up. The horse reared, and the knight looked down on him. In the pale moonlight Quentin thought he knew the face that sought his; there was something familiar about it, but he could not be sure. He shook his throbbing head slowly, and he heard the whinny of his own mount behind him.

  “Are you hurt?” said the knight towering over him. Quentin could not believe his ears—here was a tongue he recognized. The knight leaned down to look at him closely.

  Yes, the face seemed familiar, like one he had seen in a dream long ago. But it was real, and it peered down on him intently, eyes shining in the soft light.

  “Quentin? By the gods’ beards! Quentin!” the knight shouted, jumping from his horse.

  Quentin shook his head dazedly. He passed his hand in front of his eyes. “Who is it?”

  There was a shout behind him. “Theido. Is it true?” The voice was Toli’s, and in an instant the Jher was beside him, tugging at him.

  “Theido? How . . . ?” Quentin could speak no more. He sank back as heavy vapors of darkness covered him, his consciousness receding swiftly. He heard many shouts and voices close at hand and the sound of horses galloping in. He struggled to keep his eyes open, but his lids had grown leaden, and there was no fight left in him. It seemed that he had grown light as down, for he felt himself borne up as on a sudden gust to ride on the wings of the wind, which now roared in his ears.

  25

  The touch of a cool hand on his brow brought Quentin out of the deepest sleep he had ever known. He heard a voice somewhere above him say, “See there! He has come back. Heoth would not have him!”

  He opened his eyes to see a ring of faces grinning down on him. Esme’s pretty brow wrinkled in concern quickly giving place to relief.

  “There seems to be no escaping you,” remarked Quentin as he strained to sit up. There was laughter all around, and hands reached out to clap him on the back.

  “We knew you could not elude us,” said Ronsard. “Oh, but it is good to see you alive.”

  “Ronsard, Theido . . . I must be dreaming still. How did you find us?”

  “It is no dream, my friend. But if not for this young woman”— Ronsard nodded to Esme kneeling next to him—??
?we would never have found you, nor even known to search. She showed us where to look.”

  “You came back,” Quentin said.

  “I had to protect my protectors, did I not?” Esme answered. Her sudden smile seemed to warm him from within. “Besides, I had already lost one escort, and I was determined not to lose another.” Her dark eyes suddenly welled with tears. “Forgive me for leaving you, sir. When I saw you pulled from your horse, I wanted to help you, but I could only think of my errand. I am sorry.”

  Toli thrust his head in among those gathered around him. The smell of food that he brought with him reminded Quentin how hungry he was.

  “Eat, Kenta. We have already done so. We will talk while you breakfast.” Toli set a steaming bowl before him, and Quentin fell to with a ready appetite.

  “Myrmior has been telling us of your captivity. You have much to thank him for,” said Theido.

  “Myrmior?” The name was strange to Quentin.

  “You mean he has risked his life to bring you out of the enemy’s camp and you do not know his name?”

  “There was not time enough for such pleasantries. We were quite busy with staying alive. And only half succeeding at that.”

  “This one has a strong will to survive.” The deep rolling voice was the seneschal’s. “I am glad to know you, Lord Quentin.”

  “I am no lord, Myrmior.”

  “Better than that,” said Ronsard. “He is the king’s own son.”

  “His ward,” Quentin corrected.

  “Ward or son, I see I have chosen well the man to save. From now on, my lords, I am at your service. It will be an insult if you do not allow me to serve you in whatever ways you will.” Myrmior bowed low and touched his forehead with his fingertips.

  “You have done service enough for the Dragon King. Your reward is yours to name once we reach Askelon and King Eskevar hears how you have rescued his own from certain death.”