For a moment it appeared as if this final assault would indeed shatter the Ningaal strength, for the howling axe-men of the warlords melted before the defenders’ blades as snow before the flame. And for a moment the Dragon King and his knights stood unchallenged on the hard-won battleground as the enemy roiled in retreat.
But the illusion of victory was fleeting, for there came a sound that seemed to come tearing out of the ground as if the very earth were rending. It filled the air and soared aloft to shriek across the plain. Those who heard it quailed in its presence; even the stoutest among them trembled.
All eyes turned toward the south and for the briefest instant the rolling smoke parted to reveal a solid wall of warriors stretching across the plain. Nin the Immortal had arrived with his fifty thousand.
FIFTY-FIVE
THE BATTLE-WEARY defenders watched in horror as the conquest, so nearly won, raced away on wings of hopelessness, and certain doom swarmed in to take its place. The cheers of triumph turned to bitter wails of despair, as the Ningaal, seeing their sure salvation, halted their retreat and turned once more upon the Dragon King’s battered army.
Eskevar had but little time to rally his flagging troops before the enemy surged around them like a flood whose waters rose to overwhelm all. At once the hapless defenders were surrounded on every tide and cut off from any possible retreat. The warlords urged their warriors to fighting frenzy, and one by one the Dragon King’s brave soldiers fell.
Ronsard and Theido fought to keep abreast of the King and protect him to the very end. But a sudden rush of enemy swirled up before them and drove them apart.
Three black-braided howling Ningaal, mouths foaming, eyes wild and faces smeared with blood, leaped up and grabbed the reins of Theido’s mount. One of the attackers instantly lost a hand in a crimson gush; another dropped dead to the earth, never feeling the stroke that split his skull. The third smashed his axe into Theido’s chest, and the knight felt the blade bite deep as his armor buckled and parted. He reeled in the saddle, falling back beneath the force of the blow which would have killed most men.
The Ningaal attacker, still clutching the haft of his axe, was pulled off the ground as Theido’s courser reared. Theido swung his buckler down upon the enemy’s head, and his opponent fell sprawling to the earth where the warhorse’s flashing hooves made short work of him.
Theido, by some miracle, remained in the saddle and wrenched the axe from the crease in his chestplate. He knew himself to be grievously wounded but turned to look for Ronsard and Eskevar. The current of battle had carried them far apace. He saw Ronsard engaging four or five enemy with flaming pikes and swords, trying to keep them from reaching the King, when suddenly a warlord, charging into their midst with his black cape flying, struck into the fight.
Instantly the warlord was met by the lightly armed figure of Myrmior. The seneschal, his face a mask of hate, thrust himself between the King and the warlord. Theido saw Myrmior’s sword flash in the starlight in a shining arc. The warlord raised his blade, and Myrmior’s sword shattered with the force of his mighty blow. The warlord struck again and beat angry Myrmior’s shield. Theido watched, helpless, as the warlord’s cruel and curving blade flicked out and buried itself deep in Myrmior’s unprotected chest. Myrmior clutched at the blade with one hand and pulled, even as the warlord sought to withdraw it, jerking the battle lord forward in the saddle. In the same instant Myrmior brought his broken sword up and slammed it into the warlord’s throat. Theido then saw the two men topple to the earth.
So quickly did this happen that Theido had scarcely lifted the reins to send his mount forward and it was over. From his vantage point the knight saw Ronsard, who had killed three of his assailants, lurch away and drive once more to the King’s side. But in that momentary lapse worlds were lost, for Theido, already pounding to his aid, saw Eskevar pulled from the saddle to sink into a boiling knot of Ningaal with pikes and axes.
Ronsard reached the spot where his monarch went down first. He killed two with one stroke and four more in as many passes. Theido’s arrival sent the rest darting away as Ronsard, heedless of his own safety, flung himself from the saddle and knelt beside his King.
Soon there were shouts all around. “The King has fallen! The Dragon King has fallen!” The defenders swarmed to his side, forming a wall around the body of their beloved ruler.
Ronsard held Eskevar’s head in his hands and carefully removed the King’s helmet. “It is over, brave friend,” Eskevar gasped. “I shall lift my blade no more.”
“Say not so, Sire,” said Ronsard, tears seeping out of the corners of his eyes to run down his broad cheeks. He tore off his own gauntlet and thrust a corner of the King’s cloak into a bleeding wound at the base of Eskevar’s neck.
“There is no pain… no pain,” said Eskevar, his voice a whisper. “Where is my sword?”
“Here, Sire,” said Theido, placing his own weapon into the King’s grasping hands.
Eskevar clutched the weapon to his breast and closed his eyes.
Those watching from the castle ramparts and battlements saw the King fall, and a cry of grief and dismay tore from their hearts as from the throat of a mortally wounded beast. But the cry had not yet died in the air when someone shouted, “Look to the east!” All eyes turned their gaze eastward where the forlorn watchers saw a strange and wondrous sight.
It appeared to those watching, and to the soldiers crouching over the body of the Dragon King, that lightning flashed out of the east with the brightness of the blazing sun, for there was a sudden blinding flare which seemed to fill the sky, outshining even the light of the Wolf Star.
Another burst of brilliant light struck the sky and the surging Ningaal paused to look up from their bloody work to view with alarm this new marvel.
Suddenly all anyone could see was the form of a knight on a white steed bolting out of the east. In his upraised arm he carried a sword that blazed and flashed with living light.
All the earth seemed to fall silent before the approach of this unknown knight. The thunder of his charger’s hooves could be heard pounding over the plain as he flew as on eagle’s wings into battle.
“Zhaligkeer!” someone shouted. “The deliverer has come!”
A murmur swept through the ward yards and towers of Askelon. Alinea, Bria and Esme, holding vigil in the eastern tower, looked out through tearful eyes to see this strange sight. The soldiers of the Dragon King, standing shoulder to shoulder around their fallen Lord, raised their visors in astonishment.
The sword in the knight’s hand seemed to cast a beam of light toward heaven as he rode swiftly onward. The Ningaal, amazed at this unheralded apparition, looked on with gaping mouths. Even Nin, Supreme Deity of the Universe, struggled to his feet from his throne upon its platform to better see what was happening.
Quentin, astride the speeding Blazer, saw the remnant of the Dragon King’s army surrounded by the enemy upon the plain. With Toli at his side he had no other thought but to rush to their aid and take his place beside them. In his dash he saw the standard of the Dragon King fall beneath the flood of the enemy. He had then drawn his sword as with a battle cry he launched himself straight toward the place where he had marked the banner’s fall.
Zhaligkeer burned with the brilliance of a thousand suns, throwing off bolts of lightning that seared the air. For the Ningaal, transfixed by the unearthly vision, this was too much. Unafraid of bold earthly warriors, they were terrified at the appearance of this heavenly foe. The barbarians threw down their weapons and fled before him. Quentin drove into the center of the reeling horde and rode untouched into the midst of the Dragon King’s awestruck army.