The Warlords of Nin Read Free Page A

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    They arrived at Malmarby village one bright morning, picking the wider path toward the town out of the maze of bogs and wetlands that surrounded it.
    As they approached the village, Toli stiffened in the saddle and reined his horse to a halt. Quentin mirrored his actions, wondering what had alarmed his friend.
    â€œWhat is it? What do you see?”
    â€œSomething is amiss in the village yonder; I feel it.”
    â€œIt looks peaceful enough. But let us go with caution.”
    They paced the horses slowly ahead, and both watched the thickets and dense shrubbery that lined the path for any signal that might confirm Toli’s apprehension.
    They saw no one and heard nothing until just before reaching the village itself. Quentin stopped his horse and stood in the saddle, looking around. The muddy track that served as Malmarby’s main street was vacant. No living thing stirred among the rough wooden houses; no sound issued from doorway or window.
    â€œThere does not appear to be anyone around. I wonder where—”
    He had not finished speaking when four men sprang out of the nearest thicket and grabbed the horses’ bridles. Two of the men were armed with spears and the others with short swords. All appeared very frightened, their faces grim with worry and pale from fear.
    It was the look upon these sorry faces that made Quentin hold his hand. “Stay, Toli! We need not fear these men, I think.” Quentin spoke loudly and calmly so that their would-be attackers would know that they intended no harm.
    There was a rustle in the thicket, and another man stepped out, or rather fell, into the road. Quentin recognized the thin, careworn face of the village counselor.
    â€œGood morning, Counselor. Is this the way you treat strangers nowadays? Or perhaps you wished to invite us to breakfast.”
    The thin, bald man blinked and rushed forward, squinting at the travelers with his one good eye.
    â€œQuentin? Step back, men. It is the prince! Let them go!” Quentin smiled at the appellation. He was not the prince, but his legend had so grown among the simple people of Mensandor that he held that lofty position in their esteem. So they conferred upon him the highest title they could presume; to them he was, quite simply, the prince.
    â€œYes, it is Quentin. But tell me, Milan, why this rude reception? And where are your townspeople? The village looks deserted.”
    â€œI’m sorry, good sir. We meant you no harm.” The village chief looked heartbroken. He wrung his hands over each other as he spoke, as if he feared some fierce retribution. “It’s just that . . . well, we cannot be too careful these days; there have been stories of evil deeds—we thought it best to post a watch on the road.”
    â€œRobbers?” Quentin asked.
    Milan ignored the question and asked one of his own. “You yourself have seen nothing?”
    â€œNo, nothing.”
    Quentin shrugged and looked at Toli. Toli studied the faces of the men before them and remained silent.
    â€œWell, perhaps our fears are unfounded. Will you stay with us?”
    â€œNo, not this time. If we may have the use of one of your excellent boats, we will put off directly. We are going to Askelon as quickly as we can.”
    The town counselor fixed Quentin with a strange, knowing look and turned away. “Go on ahead and tell the town. The way is clear; there is nothing to fear,” he called to one of his men. Then to Quentin he added, “The boat is yours. You may take mine; it is the largest by far; my son will go with you.”
    â€œWe are grateful for your kindness,” said Quentin as they moved off together.
    They passed the simple dwellings that crowded one another all along the path right down to the water’s edge. Quentin saw an occasional fleeting face at a window or peering from a doorway, but by the time they reached the great wooden pier that served as a wharf for the