The man, tall and dressed in a loose garment of deepest indigo bedecked with chains of gold, wore an unusual soft, flat hat of a kind which Quentin had never seen before. Beneath the hat a long face protruded which was rimmed by a short, bristling beard. The beard was black as pitch, contrasting boldly with the lighter, somewhat sallow complexion of the emissary.
He strode with purpose directly to the wagon to stand with hands on hips glaring down upon the two prisoners. Quentin stared boldly back into the snapping black eyes as the warlord’s chief emissary-for so Quentin now considered him-spoke quickly to the two guards. He did not turn his head to speak to them, but kept his eyes on the captives alone.
The guards grumbled back an answer to the bearded officer. He barked at them once more and tossed them a hasty look over his shoulder. At once they jumped to their feet and, still mumbling, began to untie the prisoners from the wheels of the wagon. Then he turned and began walking back to the tent.
Quentin and Toli were jerked to their feet and pushed forward to follow him. Their guards seemed none too pleased to be about this duty. Quentin wondered what this summons could mean. Toli returned his questioning glance with one of his own as they marched through the camp. Quentin noticed that the eyes of the soldiers they passed followed them with looks of mingled fear and awe.
At the warlord’s tent the approach of the emissary and prisoners brought two soldiers to their feet to hold back the entrance flap. The tall man stooped and entered without a word; Quentin and Toli were pushed forward to follow him. Their guards, glad to be done with the detail, hurried away to find their supper.
Stooping so low brought a gasp of pain from Quentin, who stumbled and caught himself uncertainly. His hands had grown stiff and numb from his bonds. When he picked himself up he saw that the inside of the domed tent was like the canopy of the night sky and just as dark. Tiny golden lamps suspended from golden chains burned brightly, each one a flaming star in the vault of the heavens. The robed emissary turned to them and held up his hand, indicating they were to remain where they were. He turned and disappeared behind a richly embroidered hanging curtain.
“This is like no commander’s pavilion that I have ever seen,” said Quentin as his eyes took in the strange, slightly fantastic furnishings of the abode. Everywhere he looked, the soft glisten of gold and silver met his gaze.
“It is a king’s palace made to travel.” Toli, too, registered surprise at the contrast of the fierce warlord and his men, and the surroundings of his tent.
Just then the bearded emissary stepped back through the curtain and motioned them forward, drawing aside the curtain. Quentin stepped forward, and as he did so the warlord’s seneschal cuffed him sharply on the neck as an indication that he was to bow in the warlord’s presence.
Quentin entered the inner sanctum with eyes lowered. He and Toli stood side by side for some time in silence. No one moved or spoke. Before them and a little above they could hear the slow, even breathing of the warlord, and Quentin imagined he could feel his cool gaze upon them as he pondered their fate.
The warlord grunted a command, and his servant came forward and bowed before him. The warlord spoke a low rumble in his unfathomable tongue. The seneschal bowed again and said, his voice smooth and cultured, “My Lord had decided that you may sit in his presence. He wishes you to eat with him, but you are not to speak-unless he asks you a question, and then you are to answer without hesitation. If either of you do not answer at once, he will know that you are contemplating a lie and will have your tongue cut out that your friend may eat it and remember not to follow your example.”
He clapped his hands, and two servants came bringing cushions and placed them at the prisoners’ feet. “Sit,” came the order.
When they had seated themselves, with some difficulty in Quentin’s case, the bearded emissary said, “You may raise your eyes.”
When they had done so he cried, “Look upon the immortal Gurd, Commander of the Ningaal, Warlord of Nin the Destroyer!”
Quentin was not prepared for the sight which met his eyes.
TWENTY
“THEY CAMPED here last night by the look of it,” said Ronsard, rising from the cold ashes he had been
“And by the look of it there must have been close to 3,000 men with wagons and horses.” Theido’s eyes swept the wide meadow where the army had camped. All that was left now were the scattered traces they had left behind: matted grass where men had slept, charred patches where fires had burned, broken turf where wagons had passed, and the crescent indentations in the earth where horses had walked. But the army had moved on.
“It will not be difficult to follow them. The signs are clear enough,” said Ronsard. He cast an eye toward the westering sun. “How far do you think an army that size could travel in a day? Four leagues? Five?”
“Four leagues, perhaps. Not more. They do not seem to be in any great hurry. It is strange…”
“What is?”
“That a force of such size should move through the land, driving all before them and yet…” He paused, seeking the words.
“Not appear afraid of being met and challenged.” The voice was Esme’s, who sat on her mount watching the two knights and following their conversation.
“Yes, that’s it. If I were invading a strange country,” said Theido, “I would have a thought for the resistance which must surely come sooner or later. There is an arrogance here which chills my marrow.”
One of Ronsard’s knights hailed them from across the meadow. “He has found something,” replied Ronsard. He led them to where the man knelt. Drawing closer, they soon noticed the look of frank disgust which contorted the soldier’s features.
“What is it, Tarkio? What have you found?”
“Lord Ronsard… I-someone has been killed on this spot, sir.”
The soldier was right. The deep red-black stain upon the earth could have been made in only one way.
Theido eyed the evidence, his lips pressed into a thin, colorless line.
“It could have been a stag,” suggested Esme. Her words lacked conviction; she, too, feared the worst.
“What would they do with the body?” Ronsard’s voice was strained and tight He turned away from the ugly splotch in the grass, and Esme noticed the dark flame of anger which leapt into his eyes.
“I think I know what they did with the body,” said Tarkio in a tone devoid of all expression. He spoke so oddly the others looked at him and then followed his gaze to the nearby trees.
“By Azrael!”
“The fiends.”
“Avert your eyes, my Lady. It is no sight for a woman,” said Ronsard. He glanced at Theido, and his look was one of keen distress. For two heartbeats a question hung unspoken between them. “We must,” he uttered softly. “For I would know.”
“I will go with you,” said Theido quietly. “Stay here with Tarkio, Esme. We shall return at once.”
Theido dismounted and started off with Ronsard toward the tree, a great, spreading oak wherein hung the dangling corpse of the unfortunate soldier.
It did not so much resemble a human body as it did that of some animal carcass hung up to age. The birds had been all day at its face, and the entrails were but ragged shreds. It was hung from a low branch, both halves side by side, twisting slowly on the cord which passed through the bound hands and feet.
“One of their own?” Theido’s voice was thick and his features a tight grimace.
Ronsard nodded. “This one was never born in Mensandor.”
He turned away from the gruesome token. “I am satisfied. Quentin and Toli may still be alive, though I am not overconfident of such possibility.”