The bearded seneschal, heedless of the danger to himself, mounted a small hillock on the far bank and there stood waving his hands. At first it seemed there would be no response to his signal; no one seemed to heed the commander presenting himself so foolishly in the thick of the fighting. But then there came a groan as if the earth were rending, tearing out its very bowels. A hush fell upon the startled invaders as they stopped still to listen and look around them.
Another groan went up, and another, filling the wood with an eerie thunder accented by shuddering pops and horrible creaks as if some ancient beast were shattering the bones of its gargantuan prey. And then the sky itself seemed to pitch and sway.
The first tree crashed to earth square upon the bodies of a troop of Ningaal too startled to move. Their comrades dodged aside, screaming, only to be met by the second tree, which fell at an angle to the first and stilled many voices as its branches crushed and pinioned all beneath it.
To the terror-stricken Ningaal it seemed as if the forest were crashing down upon them. Many dropped their weapons and fled back across the river and into the forest where they were dispatched with arrows. The third tree crashed down across the ford and blocked the retreat of those who sought to return once more the way they had come. A cohort of defenders chased the fleeing Ningaal and slew many as they ran screaming through the wood.
The terror inspired by this last trap was short-lived, however. Soon the iron-willed warlords had their men back in close command. With terrible efficiency the warlords bore down upon the sturdy knights, cutting through their faltering defenses, and the tide of battle turned against the Dragon King’s forces. Still, though out-manned and exhausted, the staunch knights held their own through the middle hours of the day.
Teams of Ningaal, some with axes and some holding shields over their heads, began cutting down the trees wherein archers lay hurling death to those below. Thus protected, the Ningaal were able to fell the trees, if not completely stop the archers who escaped at the last moment by swinging away on the ropes they had concealed among the vines. But the menace from the treetops was eventually stilled and then the dread warlords turned their attention to the armored knights, now pulling their lines together along the far bank.
“It is time to flee,” said Ronsard breathlessly. He was bleeding from a dozen shallow wounds and his face, beneath the blood and grime, was gray with exhaustion. “We have done all we can.”
Theido nodded. “Go, good friend. Lead your men away. I will remain behind to cover your retreat and then follow you as soon as you are free.”
Myrmior appeared, white-faced and holding his arm while a crimson stain spread down his sleeve. “It is too late, my lords. Alas! I have just made a last survey of our position. We are surrounded on all sides. There is no escape.”
“We are completely cut off?” asked Ronsard. The strength seemed to go out of him, and his sword fell to his side.
“I feared as much. There are just too many of them.” Theido turned his grim face away and called in a strong voice for the defenders of the realm to rally to him and prepare to make their dying stand.
In a few moments the remnants of the exhausted fighting force were dragging themselves together around the hillock where Theido stood with upraised sword. The Ningaal fell back to gather their numbers for the final onslaught. For a brief moment the clangor of battle died away.
“Brave knights of Mensandor,” said Theido, “you have fought well this day. You have proven the honor of your King and country. Your deeds will be sung as long as deeds of valor are remembered.” The knights, some kneeling around him, raised their faces to his. Theido continued calmly.
“Let not the moment of death cheat you of the honor you have earned. It is but a little pain and then will come rest and sleep, and you will never again know pain. Have no fear and stand boldly to the end.”
“For glory!” shouted a knight.
“For honor!” shouted several others.
“For King and kingdom!” shouted a chorus led by Ronsard, who came to take his place at the head of his warriors.
The knights raised themselves to their feet, lowered their visors and turned to meet the enemy for the last time. The Ningaal, watching from every side, paused for a moment. Then the four warlords raised their curved blades, and with a ferocious cry the Ningaal sprang forward once more into the fray.
“‘Twere better over quickly,” said Ronsard as the attackers swarmed around them. “I have no regrets.”
“Nor I, my friend,” answered Theido, “though my heart is heavy at the thought of our country falling before these barbarians. But I have done all any man can.”
“Good-bye, brave friend,” said Ronsard. “Is this the dark road you warned me of? How long ago it seems now.”
“It well may be. But wait!” He turned and mounted the crest of the hillock. “Trumpeter!” he cried. “Sound your call! Sound it until your last breath! Do you hear? Sound it, I say!”
He turned with his face shining and eager once more. “Fight on, brave sirs!” he called, running down into the fight. “Hold on!”
Ronsard plunged after him, guarding his left, and the two men drove ahead, swords singing in the air as if they would single-handedly drive the invaders from their shores. The knights around them, heartened by the example of their dauntless leaders, put their shields together and dug in. If death came now, it would find them brave soldiers to the end.
FORTY-TWO
QUENTIN ROSE and stood looking across the polished surface of the Skylord’s Mirror. The deep of the night was upon the fair valley, and the moon now crouched low behind the western peaks of the Fiskills, firing their snowy caps with a white brilliance that reflected in the fathomless lake. Also reflected with startling clarity were the myriad stars burning like pieces of silver fire in the black vault of heaven’s dome. The bright green turf of the valley was now gray in the subtle moonlight and the leaping falls flowed down like liquid light, sending their ghostly mist to curl and eddy on the night air.
Across the distance Quentin could hear the falls splashing among the rocks at their base in a sound like laughter carried on the wind. It was the only sound that could be heard, for the valley was silent. Toli, Durwin and Inchkeith were asleep; wrapped in their cloaks they looked like lumps of earth or stone, so still and silent did they lay.
How long he stood looking, Quentin did not know. Time seemed to hold no particular meaning in the valley. But Quentin was suddenly mindful of another sound, or rather the impression of a sound, which had been present for some time. Perhaps it had awakened him.
The sound was a thin, high-pitched tinkling sound like needles dropping onto a stone floor. Or, he imagined, the sound of ice forming on a winter pool-if one could only hear it. The sound seemed to be coming from far above him. He turned his face to the sky and saw the Wolf Star, now shining directly overhead, filling the sky with blazing light, a light so bright it cast shadows upon the earth. The light made him cold, and Quentin pulled his cloak more tightly around his shoulders; but he could not take his eyes off the star.
It seemed to be moving, stretching, growing thinner and pulling other stars into its dance, for it swirled and shimmered in the blackness of the sky like a living thing. The stars melted together into a single shaft of light, cold and hard as ice. A thin, tapering shaft that stretched from the east to the west, from one end of the night to the other.
The tinkling sound was, Quentin realized now, the music of the stars and the flashing shaft of light was the blade of a mighty sword.