He waited. The night seemed to grow suddenly still. Yet, he could hear nothing, save the night wind sighing in the trees and a nighthawk keening as it soared among the scattered clouds.
And then it came: a startled shout, cut off short. And then more shouts interspersed with the cold ring of steel on steel. Then the sounds became confused-horses whinnying and men giving voice to their battle cries. In a moment he heard the sound of horses crashing back through the wood, much more loudly than they had gone in.
“Here they come!” shouted Theido to his archers. He raised his sword high above his head. In two heartbeats a charger came pounding out of the darkness, its rider low in the saddle. The rider did not stop when he reached the ranks of hidden archers, but continued on down the dale.
“Draw your bows!” Theido shouted. Instantly there came a whisper of arrow shafts against the bow. More knights were now thundering out of the wood, and there was the unmistakable clamor of pursuit.
“Hold steady!” cried Theido as the last knight dashed by him but a pace from where he crouched in waiting. He bit his lip-he had not seen Ronsard emerge from the wood.
They waited, bowstrings taut.
Then suddenly the knight appeared at the opening in the wood where he had entered only moments before. He paused and waved his sword. The shouts of his pursuers now filled the wood and echoed in the dell beyond. Theido could see torches, blinking as they waved through the wood. “Get on! Get away!” muttered Theido under his breath. Ronsard spun and galloped into the clearing and away down the dell as the first of the Ningaal came running out behind him.
“Let fly!” shouted Theido, and instantly the night was filled with dark missiles.
The first rank of Ningaal stumbled forward and dropped to the ground without a sound. Their comrades boiled out of the wood behind them and hesitated, uncertain what had become of those just ahead. In that moment’s pause death fell upon them as arrow after arrow streaked to its mark.
The enemy was thrown into confusion and dropped back into the cover of the dark wood with shouts of terror and cursing. But as the first force was joined by others from the camp, Theido thought he heard the coarse, authoritative shouts of the warlord himself. Almost at once the Ningaal broke from the forest, but this time they crouched low to the ground and held their round shields before them, making very difficult targets for Theido’s archers.
“Get ready, men!” ordered Theido. The Ningaal were now moving more quickly over the ground between them. “Let fly!” shouted Theido, and his words were answered by the rattling scrape of arrow points upon the Ningaal shields. But some of the arrows found a home, and cries of shock and outrage stabbed the night as the shafts bit deep.
“Retreat!” cried Theido a moment later. He had seen the warlord upon his horse jump into the clearing surrounded by his bodyguard.
The knight and his archers did not wait to welcome the newcomers with feathers. Instead they jumped up and ran yelling into the dell, just as Ronsard and his knights had done. A mighty shout arose from the throats of the Ningaal who now believed that they had the King’s army on the run. They bolted after the fleeing archers, trodding over the bodies of their comrades.
Theido led his men down the slope and into the dell, across the small brook at its bottom, and up the other side to disappear just over the crest of the hill beyond. The triumphant Ningaal, bellowing praises to their destroyer god, raced after them, darkness that lay upon the land. They rushed headlong, recklessly into the valley.
As soon as Theido and his men vanished over the hill, the first Ningaal were fording the stream with shouts and curses of anger. Hundreds more of the dark enemy were pounding out of the wood after them to gather in the dell, stopped momentarily by the obstacle of the brook. And once more, in that moment whistling death streaked out of the skies as Lord Wertwin’s archers, hidden all along the sides of the narrow valley, loosed their sting upon them. The Ningaal shrieked in pain and horror, as terrified beasts mortally wounded by an
Arrows hailed down upon them from every side. Ningaal running out of the woods fell upon their comrades and trapped those trying to flee from the deadly ambush. Those who went down into the dell never rose again.
In a moment all who had thrown themselves down into the valley lay still. No more Ningaal came from the forest. No one moved.
“Let us escape now, while we may,” whispered Theido. “The victory is ours if we do not long remain here. They will be back, and soon.”
Ronsard gave a silent signal and the men, knights and archers began melting away into the night as quickly and as silently as the shadowy clouds before the moon. Lord Wertwin’s force joined them and they left the field in an instant, leaving it to the fallen Ningaal.
That night warlord Gurd lost five hundred. The Dragon King did not lose a single man.
THIRTY-SEVEN
THE RAIN-WASHED sky arched high above like a limitless blue dome. The air was cool and fresh, scented with balsam and pine and the damp of earth. The grass still sparkled with raindrops, glittering like diamonds in the early morning light. The party had eaten a fine meal at Inchkeith’s table and had, thanks to the master armorer’s sons, set off without raising a hand-except to drink down goblets full of Camilla’s excellent mulled cider.
Quentin, well-fed and rested, had quite forgotten his apprehension of the night before. He had convinced himself that his arm was better-and that it would surely fully heal. But he still could not see how he could be expected to wield a sword before his bones had knit. Thus the awesome prospect of his being the mysterious, legendary Priest King seemed remote and almost ridiculous. In the dazzle of a brilliant new day he felt ashamed and embarrassed for having had the audacity of presuming himself to be in any way central to the fulfilling of the prophecy.
Of course, it had been a presumption fostered by both Durwin, Biorkis and, for all Quentin knew, Toli. But he had allowed them to lead him into thinking that the prophecy might indeed point to him. The whole thing was foolish, preposterous. Quentin could see that now. He told himself so, and he believed it.
The horses had clattered out of Whitehall’s courtyard at first light. Through the cleft in the ridge wall, golden rays of sunlight sliced the violet shadow of the canyon like a blade. It appeared to Quentin as they rode through the gatehouse and out onto the broad meadow, their horses cantering in high spirits, that they moved upon a trail of light all golden and green and shimmering. Everything that came to view, every tree and rock and mountain peak, seemed clean and new and vibrant with life. It was as if the world had been created anew during the night and the old world had been cast off as a pale, pathetic parody of the true thing. Quentin imagined that he was seeing it all for the first time and that this was how it had looked when the world was young.
He heard a strange whoop behind him and turned to see Durwin’s face radiant in the golden light, mouth open and head thrown back laughing. And then suddenly he was laughing too. Toli started singing, leading them all in a song which he called “Pella Olia Scear” or “Song of the Morning Star.”
They sang, and their voices soared up the sheer rock face of the ridge wall and fell whispering back. Beside them, as they neared the cleft, the rock stream cascaded with renewed vigor, leaping over its stony bed and splashing fiery gems into the air. The stream, called Rockrace by Inchkeith, spread out a road of flowing silver as it rushed to meet the day. They followed Rockrace for a long time among the fragrant firs, and then, as the sun mounted higher, crossed it and headed toward the Fiskills’ barren foothills.