19-06-03 - v2.0 - spell corrections - billbo196



                                 THE

             WARLORDS OF NIN

                                    By

                Stephen Lawhead


                                 ONE
  QUENTIN STOOD at the high parapet overlooking the tranquil forest.
His eyes scanned the gently lifting hills clothed in their greens of early
summer, all softened in the golden afternoon light by the gathering mists
of evening. At his hand upon the cool stone balustrade a thin parchment
roll fluttered in the easy breeze. At his feet lay a leather case from which
he had drawn the scroll to read only moments before. The case bore the
royal insignia he knew so well: the terrible, twisting red dragon of the
Dragon King.
  The warmth of the later afternoon sun splashed full on his face, and yet
Quentin felt a chill creeping through him. He sighed a heavy sigh and
hung his head, shaking it slowly from side to side. Hearing a rustle behind
him and the brushing tread of a soft foot on the stone, he turned to see Toli
gliding up.
   The tall young man settled himself easily on the edge of the parapet and
crossed his arms over his chest. He regarded Quentin with a quizzical
brown eye and breathed the clean, fresh air deep into his lungs. “Listen,”
he said, holding his head to one side. “It is the sound of the earth at
peace.”
   Quentin listened and heard the faraway chirp of birds as they flittered
among the whittle berries, the breeze nudging the leaves, voices
murmuring in a courtyard somewhere below.
   “They told me a rider from Askelon had arrived with a message for you.
I thought to come and see if my master required anything.”
   Quentin looked at his friend and smiled. “You mean curiosity moved
you from your beloved stables. Yes, a message from the King.” He picked
up the parchment and handed it to Toli, who began to read.
   Presently Toli’s head came up, and his eyes found Quentin’s studying
him. “This does not say what the trouble is.”
   “No, but it is not a request for a friendly visit. There is some need
behind it, and some urgency. If it were but a small thing Eskevar would
have waited. We’re due to travel back to Askelon in a few weeks
anyway....”
   “And this recommends that we leave right away. Yes, I see. But there is
something else?” Toli’s sharp eyes appraised Quentin, who stiffened and
turned away from their piercing gaze.
   “What makes you say that?”
   Toli laughed softly. “Only that I know my Kenta very well. You would
not look so if you had not a suspicion of what lay behind this innocent
summons.”
   “Innocent?” He fingered the leather case that he had stooped to retrieve.
“But you’re right, Toli. I am afraid a little. Something came over me as I
read that message—a feeling of deep sadness, of loss....”
   Toli watched Quentin closely and waited for him to continue.
   “I’m afraid that if we go to Askelon now, we will never come back to
Dekra again.”
   “You saw this?”
  Quentin only shook his head.
  “Well, then it may not be. Your feelings may only be a warning of what
may come if we do not go at once.”
  Quentin smiled again; this time a flicker of relief shone in his eyes.
“Yes, perhaps you are right. As usual the servant has rescued his master
from himself.
  “We can leave tonight. It will be good to sleep on the trail again. We
have not done that in a long time, you and I.”
  “We shall, but not tonight. Have you forgotten that tonight we dine with
Yeseph? If I am not mistaken, we have only enough time to prepare
ourselves and go to his house. He will be waiting.”
  “We will leave at dawn instead,” said Quentin.
  “So be it,” said Toli, inclining his head in a slight bow. “I will see to our
preparations when we have supped with Yeseph and the Elders.”
  Quentin nodded and took the rolled parchment which Toli offered him,
then slid it back into its case as they turned and walked back into
Quentin’s rooms.
  The two dressed themselves in their finest woolen mantles and stuffed
their feet into fine leather boots and set off for Yeseph’s humble lodgings.
  Yeseph lived in a quarter of the ruined city near the library. As they
walked along together, Quentin looked upon the home he had come to
love. His eyes, long ago accustomed to the tumbled structures that still met
his gaze on every side, seemed not to notice the destruction, but instead
saw it all the way it had been in the time of the mighty Ariga.
  In his mind he saw stones lifted back into place one upon another;
arches reconstructed with their colorful tiles, and beautifully carved doors
thrown wide in welcome; courtyards once again abloom with flowering
plants; streets echoing with laughter and song. He saw it all as he
imagined it had been. Quentin always experienced the same magical
sensation when he moved about the city. In the ten years he had lived in
Dekra, he never lost the rapture it held for him, or the feeling that he
belonged there, that Dekra was his home as was none other he would ever
find.
  “It will be once again,” said Toli as they moved along the quiet streets,
over stones worn smooth with time.
  “What will be?” asked Quentin absently.
  “This city. It will be again what it once was: the way you see it in your
head.”
  “Do you think so?”
  “Don’t you?”
  “I believe that it will. I want to believe it. Though it seems sometimes
that the work goes so slowly. There is so much to be done. We could use
more hands.”
  “But look how much has been accomplished since we came here. And
every year our numbers grow. Whist Orren blesses our efforts with his
own.”
  It was true. The work of restoring the ancient city and populating it with
people who shared the dream of rebuilding it to its former glory, of
studying the ways of the Ariga and their god—that was going on at a fine
pace. Much had been done in ten years’ time.
  The work of a lifetime, however, still remained. And that was what
pricked Quentin’s impatience.
  They met Quentin’s stooped old teacher where he stood waiting for
them at the gate of his courtyard. His face beamed when he saw the two
young men striding up. “Hello! Hello, my friends!” cried Yeseph, running
out to meet them. “I have been waiting for you. You are the first to arrive.
I was hoping that would be the case. I wanted to talk to you both.”
  He drew them into the shady courtyard and led them to stone benches
under a spreading tree. The yard was spotless and furnished as nicely as
any garden could be whose owner loved plants and flowering things.
  “Sit down, please. Sit. Omani!” Yeseph clapped his hands when his
guests had seated themselves beneath the tree. A slim young girl appeared
with a tray of wooden goblets and a stone carafe. She floated forward with
an easy grace and laid the tray at Yeseph’s elbow where he sat. “You may
pour, bright one,” he said gently.
  The girl poured and served the beverages around. She turned to leave
and Yeseph called after her, “See that the meal is prepared when the others
arrive, it will not be long now, I think.” She bowed and retreated into the
house, smiling all the while.
  The Curatak did not have servants. But often young girls or boys would
attach themselves to the households of older Curatak leaders or craftsmen
to serve and learn at their hand, until they decided what they wished to do
with their lives. In that way those who needed the assistance of a servant
did not lack, and young people found useful occupation until they could
enter the adult world.
   Yeseph watched the girl disappear into his darkened doorway a little
wistfully. Quentin noticed his look and commented, “She’s a very able
helper, Yeseph. You are blessed.”
   “Yes, and I am sorry to lose her.”
   “Why would you lose her?”
   “Why not? She is nearly eighteen. She wishes to be married soon. Next
summer perhaps. She and Rulan, a former pupil of mine. He is a good
young man, very intelligent. It will be a good match. But I will lose a
wonderful cook and companion. I feel she is my own daughter.”
   “Why don’t you get married again?” asked Toli.
   Yeseph suddenly looked flustered. “Who has been talking to you?”
   “No one. I merely wondered.”
   “Well, it is true nonetheless. That is what I wanted to tell you. I am to be
married. I am announcing the banns tonight.”
   “Congratulations!” shouted Quentin, jumping to his feet. He crossed the
distance between himself and his former teacher in one bound and
embraced him, kissing both cheeks.
   “Who is the lucky bride?”
   “It is Karyll, the cloth-maker.”
   “The widow of Lendoe, who was killed in the accident at the forge some
years ago.”
   “Yes, the same. A fine woman. She has been lonely for so long....”
   Quentin laughed. “You need not explain to us; you have our permission
already. I am sure you will both be very happy together.”
   “Yes, we shall. I am very happy now—sharing this news with my
friends. You know I have come to regard you both as my own sons.”
   “Certainly, you have been both teacher and father to us more times than
we can remember.”
   “So it is fitting that you are the first to know.”
   “Will the honored woman be here tonight? I would wish to congratulate
her as well.”
   “She will be here—if that is not her voice I hear even now.”
  The sound of light voices lifted in laughter came to the courtyard from
the street beyond. Yeseph dashed to the gate once more and welcomed his
bride and her two companions. Blushing and smiling, he led her toward
Quentin and Toli, who stood grinning.
  “My friends, this is my betrothed, Karyll.”
  The short, round-faced woman smiled warmly back at them. Her hair
was bound demurely at her neck in an ornamented netting, and among the
brown Quentin could see streaks of silver. She was dressed in a plain
white, loose-fitting gown with a bright blue shawl over her shoulders. She
was a handsome woman.
  As Yeseph drew her close to him with his arm, he gave his future wife a
look of such endearment that Quentin felt a pang of longing for his own
beloved.
  “Hello, Karyll, and congratulations. Yeseph has been telling us that you
two are to be married. I am very pleased.”
  “Thank you, Quentin. We are very happy.” She turned and gazed into
Yeseph’s eyes and added, “Yeseph is full of your praises. It pleases me
that he has chosen you to hear of our plans first.”
  “When will the wedding take place?” asked Toli.
  “Yeseph and I thought that a midsummer wedding would be nice.”
  “Yes,” agreed the groom. “There is really nothing to prevent us being
married at once. We are both of age.” He laughed and Karyll laughed with
him. But the laughter faded when Yeseph saw that neither Quentin nor
Toli shared their mirth. Both had become strangely silent; the light of
happiness was extinguished in their eyes.
  “What is the matter? Does our plan not meet with your approval?”
  “Yes, and more than you know. But I fear that we will not be among the
happy wedding guests.”
  “Why not, may I ask?”
  “We were going to tell you this evening. We have received a summons
from the King, and we must leave for Askelon.”
  “Yes, I know... in a few weeks, but...”
  “No—at once. A rider came today. We must leave at once.”
  “Then we will wait until you return,” offered Yeseph. Karyll nodded her
agreement
  Quentin smiled sadly. “No, I could not ask that. I do not know when we
may return. Please, do not wait on our account,”
  Toli attempted to set the mood in a lighter tone. “Kenta means that if he
were in your place, Yeseph, he would not let so lovely a creature escape
into the arms of another. You must marry as you have planned. We will
return to greet the happy couple before they have been wed a fortnight.”
  Yeseph sought Quentin’s eyes. He, as usual, could read more there than
his friend intended. “Is it trouble, then?”
  “I fear that it is,” Quentin sighed. “The message did not say it directly,
and the courier did not say more. But he left immediately without awaiting
an answer.”
  Yeseph regarded Quentin as he stood before him. From an awkward,
impetuous youth had grown a square-shouldered, sensitive man—tall, lean
in the way young men are, yet without the careless air they often have.
Quentin had a regal bearing, and yet utterly lacked any self-consciousness
of it, or the arrogance that often accompanied such a noble spirit.
  A pang of longing ached in the old man’s heart when he saw his young
pupil and protégé wavering, as if on the brink of a great abyss. He wanted
to reach out and pull him back, but he knew he could not. Quentin
belonged to Dekra, yes. But he also belonged to Askelon, and neither
loyalty could he deny.
  “You must go, of course.” Yeseph offered a strained smile. “When will
you leave?”
  “Tomorrow at dawn. I think it best.”
  “Of course. Of course. Do not delay. Besides, the sooner you are off, the
sooner you may return, and perhaps you will bring Bria with you this
time.”
  At the mention of the name, Quentin started. He smiled warmly again.
The cold shadow which had fallen upon the happy group moved away,
and in the glimmering of a softly falling twilight they began to talk
excitedly once more of all they would do when next they met.
  Despite their desire for an early start the next morning, Quentin and Toli
were the last to leave Yeseph’s house. There had been much singing and
eating and talking. The Elders had blessed the young men’s journey, and
all had listened to stories and songs of the lost Ariga sung by one of the
young Curatak musicians. Then all had made their good-byes, but none
more ardently than did Quentin.
   “Look, Kenta,” said Toli as they found their way along the dark and
empty streets. The moon shone full upon the city, pouring out a liquid
silver light upon all it touched.
   Quentin followed Toli’s gaze upward toward the sky. “What do you
see?”
   “Oh, it is gone now. A star fell, that is all.”
   “Hmmm.” Quentin retreated again into his reverie.
   He listened to their footsteps echo along the streets and felt Dekra’s
quiet peacefulness enfold him. Then, unaccountably, he shivered, as if
they had just walked through a hanging pool of cooler air. Toli noticed the
quiver of Quentin’s shoulders and looked at his friend.
   “Did you feel it too?”
   Quentin ignored the question, and they continued on a few more paces.
“Do you think we will ever return to this place?” he asked finally.
   “The night is not a time to dwell on such things.”
   The two walked silently back to the governor’s palace and made their
way to their rooms. “It will be good to see Askelon again,” said Quentin as
they parted. “And all our friends. Good night.”
   “Good night. I will wake you in the morning.”
   For a long time Quentin lay on his bed and did not close his eyes. He
heard Toli quietly packing their things in the next room, and the Jher’s soft
footfall as he left to see to the horses before he, too, slept. At last he rolled
over on his side and fell at once to sleep as the moon shone brightly
through his balcony doors, peering in like a kindly face.



                                  TWO
  QUENTIN MET Toli in the stables—the grouping of low stone
structures Toli had turned to the purpose of breeding horses. In his time at
Dekra the Jher had become an excellent trainer and breeder of fine horses.
In fact, with the help of Eskevar’s stablemaster, he was developing a
remarkable strain of animals which were a cross between the heavier
warhorses, such as Balder, and lighter, more fleet racing stock which were
the pride of Pelagia. The resulting breed would possess strength and
stamina enough for battle, but would also have the ability to run fast and
far without tiring.
  Quentin passed under the wide stone arch and came to stand before
Balder’s stall. The old warhorse whinnied softly when he saw his master
approaching. Quentin held out his hand and patted the horse’s soft muzzle
and stroked the bulging jaw.
  “You may stay here this time, old boy. Take care of him, Wilton,” he
called over his shoulder to the youngster who helped Toli. “Give him an
extra carrot now and then.” Then patting the horse’s white-starred
forehead he said, “We will go for a long ride when I come back.”
  The stables smelled of sweet fennel and straw and the warm bodies of
the horses. The smell reminded Quentin of traveling, and he reflected that
he was indeed anxious to be off. He crossed to where Toli stood checking
their mounts’ tack and gear.
  “Good morning, Kenta. I was just about to come and wake you.”
  “As you see I am ready to go; I did not sleep much of the night. Is all
prepared?” He turned to slap a milk-white stallion on the shoulder. “Ho,
there, Blazer! Are you anxious to stretch those long legs of yours?” The
horse tossed its flowing mane and rolled a blue-black eye at Quentin as if
to say, “Away! Let us be gone!”
  “I have only to charge Wilton with some final instructions,” remarked
Toli, “then we shall go.”
  It amused Quentin that Toli, who considered himself Quentin’s servant-
for-life, was also an object of devotion among the Curatak. The gentle Jher
enjoyed the services of several helpers, whom he treated as well as any
master treated a devoted servant. The simple fact was that Toli was
regarded as much a prince as was Quentin; and in the city where all men
were servants of one another, this was the highest honor.
  Toli returned and took the reins of both horses and led them out into the
quiet streets. Quentin followed at Toli’s right hand and listened to the clop
of the horses’ hooves upon the cobbled stones of the ancient streets. In the
east the sky shone with a violet haze which lightened into a golden-red
hue as the sun rose higher.
  Toli sniffed the air and announced, “The wind is from the west over the
sea. We will have good weather for our journey.”
  “Good. I am hoping to be in Askelon before the new moon. We should
be able to manage that, aye?”
  “It is possible. With good horses and the King’s road restored through
Pelgrin...”
  “We have horses with wings, my friend. And Eskevar’s road is now
complete as far as the Arvin. We shall fly indeed.”
  They reached the gates of the city and let themselves out. The gates
were seldom tended, since Dekra had no fear of intrusion and no real need
of defense.
  At the small door which opened within the larger, Quentin paused and
took a long last look upon the city he loved. The red stone glowed with the
rosy hue of the rising sun. Towers and spires swept majestically into the
clear, cool morning air, gleaming and glittering like radiant crystal.
  The ordinary sounds of the city waking to life echoed out into the empty
streets: a dog barked, a door opened and closed. Behind him Blazer and
Riv, Toli’s sleek black mount, shook their bridles, impatient to be moving
along. Quentin raised an arm in farewell to Dekra and then turned to his
horse.
  “It is time for speed,” he called as he swung himself up into the saddle.
“On, Blazer!” The horse lifted his forelegs off the ground, gave a little
kick and leapt ahead to the trail.
  Quentin pushed an eager course through the low hills and into the
wretched marshlands. They planned to hold north as far as Malmarby, thus
skirting the boggy wasteland as much as possible. At Malmarby they
would hire a boat to cross the inlet and swing along the shore west past
Celbercor’s Wall. Then the trail would become easier. They would make
for the Arvin River where it came spilling clear and cold out of the Fiskills
and ride through the wild foothills above Narramoor along the King’s new
road, and speed along through Pelgrin to Askelon.
  The days on the trail were uneventful. Game was plentiful and, thanks to
Toli’s skill as a hunter, they never lacked for anything the hills could
provide.
  They arrived at Malmarby village one bright morning, picking the wider
path toward the town out of the maze of bogs and wetlands which
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.
  “What is it? What do you see?”
  “Something is amiss in the village yonder. I feel it.”
  “It looks peaceful enough. But let us go with caution.”
  They paced the horses slowly ahead, and both watched the thickets and
dense shrubbery which 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 which served as Malmarby’s main street was
vacant. No living thing stirred among the rough wooden houses; the town
lay silent as a tomb.
  “There 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 which 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.
  “Good 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.
  “Quentin? 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 be 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.
  “Yes, it is Quentin. But tell me, Milan, what bodes this reception? And
where are your townspeople? The village looks deserted.”
   “I’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.”
   “Robbers?” Quentin asked.
   Milan ignored the question and asked one of his own. “You yourself
have seen nothing?”
   “No, nothing.”
   Quentin shrugged and looked at Toli. Toli studied the faces of the men
before them and remained silent.
   “Well, perhaps our fears are unfounded. Will you stay with us?”
   “No, 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 may be.”
   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 the 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.”
   “We are grateful for your kindness,” said Quentin as they all moved off
together.
   They passed the simple dwellings which 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 which served as wharf for the town’s
fishing boats, most of Malmarby’s citizens were going about their
business as though nothing unusual happened. Many followed them down
to the pier, and many more hailed the regal travelers as they passed.
   The boats of Malmarby were broad, boxy things—sturdy enough to
withstand the anger of the harshest seas, which they never faced, since the
bulky boats served but to ply the sheltered inlet from one end to the other
along its length.
   Milan’s boat was more than adequate for their need, though the horses
showed some trepidation at being led aboard such a strange-looking
vessel.
   With Milan’s son, Rol, at the long stern oar, they waved themselves
away from the throng on the pier. Rol’s strong hands worked the oar, and
soon they had entered a deeper channel where a swift current pulled them
along. They raised the small sail on its stubby mast and drifted smartly
away.
   “Where do you wish to land, my Lords?” called Rol from his seat at the
tiller.
   “Anywhere you think best, as long as it is west of the Wall” Quentin
paused and regarded the hardy youth with his strong shoulders and thick
thatch of brown hair. He remembered when the good-natured young man
had been a skinny little boy who ran alongside the horses whenever a
traveler passed through the village—such as Quentin and Toli often had
occasion to do.
   “What is it the village fears?” asked Quentin, stepping close to Rol.
“What has come to pass since we have last come this way?”
   The young man shrugged a muscled shoulder and continued working the
oar. “I do not know. Stories, that is all. It does not take much to frighten
such a small village.”
   “What are these stories you speak of? Where do they come from?”
   Toli stepped in to hear what Rol had to say.
   “This spring some people came to us out of the Suthlands saying they
had been set upon by demons and their homes burned.”
   “Demons do not burn homes,” remarked Toli.
   Again the tentative shrug. “I do not know if they do or no; that is what
the people said.”
   “Hmmmm... that is strange. Did they say what these demons looked
like?”
   “They were giants. Fierce. Fire spewed from their mouths, and each one
had ten arms with claws for hands.”
   “Where did these demons come from? Did they say?”
   “No one knew. Some said they came from beyond the sea. From beyond
Gerfallon. Others said they saw the sign of the Wolf Star on their
foreheads. Maybe they came down from the sky.”
   “This is an odd tale,” said Quentin to Toli as they drew aside.
   “Why would anyone burn a village of peasants in the Suthlands?” Toli
asked. “There is little enough there, and nothing to be gained by such
doings.”
   “I cannot guess. There has been nothing like this these past ten years.
The realm is at peace. We must remember to tell the King about what we
have heard.”
   Rol proved an able seaman, and the day’s end found them close to their
destination. A faint mist gathered on the water at the shoreline and pushed
out into the inlet. Through the gray mist they saw the dark plane of the
Great Wall jutting out into the deep water as the shadows lengthened upon
the land.
   Rol steered the boat around the Wall’s looming edge and made for the
rocky strand. No one spoke as they passed by the imposing shape. The
steady slap and dip of Rol’s long oar was the only sound which broke the
stillness on the water.
   Quentin watched the mist curling around the base of the Wall and
thought it made the Wall appear to be floating on a foundation of
billowing clouds while the deepening sky above seemed to grow hard and
solid as stone as it darkened with the twilight. He started when he heard a
hollow knock and felt the slight jolt that told him they had touched shore.
   “Will you stay with us tonight, Rol? We will camp a little way along the
trail, up there.” Quentin pointed to a tree-lined rise which bordered the
shore. “Toli will have a fire going in no time, and we will have some hot
food.”
   “Thank you, my Lord. I am tired—and hungry, too. I cannot say which I
am the more.”
   “Well, you have done us a great service, and it shall be rewarded.
Here”—Quentin reached into the soft leather pouch which hung at his
belt—”a gold ducat for your trouble, and one for your kindness.”
   Rol bowed low as he thrust out his callused hand. “Sir, it is too much. I
must not accept so much.” He fingered the gold coins and handed them
back to Quentin.
   “No, you have earned them both, and our praise besides. Keep them and
say no more about it. But look! Toli is already making camp. Let us hurry
to join him, or we may be too late for our supper.”
   The three reclined around the fire and talked as the stars came out in the
immense black vault of the heavens. Below them on the strand the water
lapped gently against the smooth, round rocks, and above them in the trees
a nightbird called to its mate. Tall pines stood over them, and the air
smelled of fresh wind and balsam.
   Quentin drifted easily to sleep, nodding in his place, until he at last bade
his companions good night and rolled himself in his cloak. Toli added
another log to the fire and got up to check the horses before he himself
turned in. Rol already slept soundly, judging from the slow, even rhythm
of his breathing.
   Toli stretched and lifted his eyes to the night sky, now sparkling with
tiny lights. As he scanned the heavens his eye caught a curious sight. He
stood for a moment contemplating what he saw, and then turned and crept
softly toward Quentin.
   “Kenta...” He nudged his sleeping master gently. “Kenta, I want you to
see something.”
   Quentin turned and sat up. He peered intently into Toli’s face, lit on one
side by the firelight. He could not read the expression there.
   “What is it? Have you at last seen the White Stag?”
   “No, nothing so important.” Toli dismissed the jest. “I thought you
might want to see this....” He led Quentin a short space away from the fire
and the overhanging boughs of the trees.
   “Look to the east... there just above the Wall. Do you see it?”
   “A star? Yes, I see it—that very bright star.”
   “See how it shines. Do you think it odd?”
   “It is the Wolf Star. But you are right; it does have a different look
tonight. What do you make of it?”
   Toli gazed upward at the brilliant star and at last turned away, saying, “I
do not know what to make of it. I only wanted you to see it, so that we
may be agreed about it.”
   Quentin was not satisfied with this answer. Toli, evidently withholding
something, declined to speak further. There was no use in pushing the
matter further until the Jher was ready to say more. Whatever was
tumbling around in that head, thought Quentin, would come out sooner or
later, but only when Toli desired it so. He would wait. Quentin sighed and
rolled himself once more in his cloak and fell to sleep.
                             THREE
   FROM THE sound of the gurgling crash which filled the rock-rimmed
canyon, the Arvin’s first cataract lay just ahead. Blazer and Riv picked
their way among the loose stones of the canyon floor as Quentin and Toli
scanned the soaring cliffs above. All around them towered jagged spires of
rock. They moved carefully, as through a giant’s petrified forest.
   They passed between two large outcroppings of dull brown stone upon
which rested a great slab forming the posts and lintel of an enormous
doorway. “Azrael’s Gate,” muttered Quentin as they passed quickly
through, and then, brightening considerably, “Look! Eskevar’s road.” He
pointed across Arvin’s racing headwaters to the other side where the road
began.
   Without hesitation Quentin urged his steed forward into the frigid water.
The swift stream splashed around the horse’s legs and wet his rider to the
knees. Quentin found the icy tingle the perfect tonic to banish the
oppressive forboding which had settled upon him as it always did when he
rode through the eerie canyon which ended in Azrael’s Gate. Now, with
that behind and the clear wide road ahead, his spirits suddenly lifted.
   “It won’t be long now,” he called over his shoulder to Toli, just then
splashing into the course. “Tomorrow night we will dine with Durwin, and
the following will see us at the Dragon King’s table.”
   “I thought you were the one for haste,” replied Toli. “We can do better
than that!” At these words he slapped Riv over the shoulders with the reins
and leaned into the saddle. The horse spurted ahead, sending torrents of
icy water up into the air as he surged past Quentin and clattered up out of
the stream and struck for the road.
   “A challenge!” shouted Quentin at Toli’s retreating figure. He snapped
Blazer’s reins as they clambered out of the water and dashed after Toli in
chase.
   High in the lonely foothills the sound of their race echoed and re-echoed
from one blank stone face to another. Their jubilant cries sang through the
rills and crevices, and rang in rock hollows and caves. The horses’ hooves
struck sparks from the stone paving as they flew.
   At last, exhausted and out of breath, the two trotted to a halt upon a
ridge. Below them the foothills dropped away in gentle arcs, fading from
violet to blue in the hazy distance. Away to the south stood the lofty,
snow-wrapped crags of the Fiskills, where endless winds howled among
the sharp peaks.
  “Ah!” sighed Quentin as he drew a deep breath. “Such a sight! It is a
beautiful land, is it not?”
  “It is that and more indeed. My people have a word for the land—I do
not think I have ever told you: Al-allira.”
  “No, I have never heard it. What does it mean?”
  “I cannot be precise—there is no exact meaning in your tongue. But it
means something like ‘the land of flowing peace.’ ”
  “Al-allira. I like that; it fits.” They started down together. “And it
certainly is peaceful. Look out across those valleys. These years have been
good ones. The land has produced full measure. The people are content. I
cannot think but that the god has blessed the realm in recompense for the
troubled times when Eskevar was away from his throne.”
  “Yes, these have been good years. Golden times. I hope we will see
them endure.”
  Quentin cast a sideways glance at his companion. Toli’s eyes were
focused on some distant horizon. He appeared as if in a trance.
  Quentin did not want to break the happy mood, so did not pursue the
matter further. They continued down the slope without speaking.
  The next day dawned fair and bright, warmed by soft winds from the
west. The travelers were already well on their way when the sun peeped
over Erlemros, the Fiskill’s highest peak. The road made going easy and
they pushed a steady pace, reaching the lowlands by midday.
  They ate a hasty meal among moss-covered stones in the shade of an
ancient oak and started again on their way. They had not traveled far when
Toli said, “Along the road, yonder. We have some company.”
  Quentin raised his eyes and saw very faintly, and very far away, what
appeared to be a group of travelers coming toward them on foot. There
was just a glimpse, and then a bend in the road took them from Quentin’s
sight.
  “Merchants, perhaps?” Quentin wondered aloud. Often traders who sold
their wares from town to town banded together in traveling companies for
mutual entertainment and protection. “I would buy a trinket for Bria.”
  They continued on, and Quentin thought of all the things his lovely
would enjoy. They rounded the side of a grassy hill covered with scarlet
wildflowers and approached the spot where they had first seen the
travelers.
  “Odd,” said Quentin. “We should have met them by now. Perhaps they
stopped up the road beyond that clump of trees.” He pointed ahead to
where a bushy stand of trees overhung the road, sheltering all beyond from
view.
  They continued on with a growing perplexity.
  When they reached the shelter of the trees they could look once again far
down the road; there was not a single person to be seen.
  “This becomes stranger with every step,” said Quentin.
  Toli swung himself down from his horse and walked along the road, his
eyes searching the dust for any signs which might hold an explanation of
the disappearance of the group they had both seen quite dearly only a short
white before.
  They moved forward slowly. Quentin watched the wooded area to the
right of the road. Then Toli stopped and knelt down. He traced his finger
around the outline of footprints in the dust.
  “They stopped here before leaving the road... there.” He pointed into the
trees.
  “How many were there?”
  “I cannot say from these signs. But there were men and women, children
too.”
  “Humph!” The utterance was a puzzled snort. “I wonder what has sent
them scurrying into the woods? Not the sight of two horsemen, surely.”
  Toli shrugged and climbed back into the saddle. “Here is something else
we must remember to tell the King.”
  “Indeed we will.”
  At dusk they camped in a grassy glade just off the road. The sun sent
ruby fingers sifting through the gossamer clouds which moved gracefully
across the violet arc of heaven. Quentin stood in a meadow dotted with
yellow flowers that brushed pollen-laden heads against his legs. With his
arms crossed on his chest and a look of dreamy concentration he
contemplated the imposing shape before him: high up on its plateau, the
thin trail leading up like a white wisp rising from the lower ground, stood
the High Temple of Ariel.
  “You miss your old home, no doubt,” said Toli coming up behind him.
  “No...” said Quentin absently, then laughed as he stirred and looked into
Toli’s dark brown eyes. “No more than one misses the shadows once he
walks in sunshine. I was only thinking of the time I spent in that temple,
for me days of loneliness and frustration, of endless studying and not
finding the one I really sought. I would not have made a very good
priest—I could never see the sense in anointing the sacred rock of the
temple. It seemed like such a waste of expensive oil, though others
esteemed it a fine gift.
  “And the sacrifices—the gold bracelets, silver bowls and carefully
groomed animals—simply made the priests wealthier and fatter than they
already were.”
  “Whist Orren demands more than bracelets, bowls or flesh. And he lives
not only in temples made by men, but in their lives.”
  “Yes, the God Most High holds out freedom to men; the price is
unbending devotion. The lesser gods do not demand as much, but who can
know them? They are like the mists on the water— when the sun touches
them, they vanish.”
  They turned and went back to settle themselves for the night. They ate,
and Toli turned the horses out to graze in the sweet grass as evening
gathered its long purple robes about the quiet glade.
  Quentin lay with his head resting upon his saddle with a clear,
unhindered view of the spangled heavens. The stars never change, he
observed. And then, even as he framed the thought, he remembered the
conversation he had earlier with Toli. He turned his head toward the east
and saw the strangely glittering star Toli had pointed out to him several
nights before.
  “The Wolf Star seems to grow brighter,” observed Quentin. “I have been
thinking the same thing, Kenta.”
  “I wonder what High Priest Biorkis would say to an omen such as this.
The priests surely have their explanations.”
  “Go and ask him.”
  “What! Do you think I dare?”
  “Why not? There is no harm.”
  “I do not believe my ears! My servant tells me to seek an omen from an
unholy source! You, Toli, of all people, know I have turned away from
tokens and omens. I follow a different god—we both do.”
   “I do not suggest you ask an omen of Ariel, or discard truths you have
learned. Only that you go to your one time friend and ask his opinion of a
strange event. There is no harm in that. Besides, Whist Orren, who holds
the stars in their courses, sometimes declares his will through such
portents. Any who will look may see what is written there.”
   “You are right, Toli. Biorkis is still my friend. Besides, I would like to
take a walk. Come along.” Quentin was on his feet and striding off across
the meadow toward the temple trail, which showed in the bright moonlight
as a silver thread winding its way up the side of the steep hill.
   They reached the trail and began the circuitous ascent to the top. As they
climbed higher, Quentin looked out into the moon-bright night. The valley
glimmered darkly; every leaf of tree and blade of grass was traced in spun
silver. Away in the distant hills shepherds’ fires winked like stars fallen
upon the land.
   They gained the top at last and entered the expansive courtyard. In the
center of the white, stone-paved yard stood a torch on a carven stone
stanchion. Its fluttering flame cast a wide circle of light around its base
and reflected on the closed doors of the temple.
   “We will see if pilgrims such as we are made welcome by night,”
whispered Quentin.
   They crossed the courtyard and climbed the many steps to the main
entrance. Upon reaching the huge doors, Quentin lifted his poniard from
its sheath at his belt and rapped upon the solid beams with its handle.
   He waited, knowing at this late hour he must rouse some nearby priest
from his sleep. As he waited, an uncanny sensation came over Quentin—a
feeling that he was once more the skinny temple acolyte of so many years
ago. For a moment he looked at the dark stone of the temple and the
moonlight-filled courtyard through the eyes of his youth.
   He knocked again and immediately heard the shuffle of someone on the
other side.
   “Be on your way, pilgrim. Come back tomorrow. The priests are
asleep,” came the muffled voice from the other side.
   “There is one who will admit us if you but tell him who it is who desires
entry.”
  “There is none who would admit you but the High Priest himself.”
  “Excellent! He is the very man we seek!”
  “No, go away! Come back tomorrow; I’ll not disturb him tonight.”
  They heard the footsteps shuffling away again on the other side of the
door.
  “Well, he means to do us no favors,” said Quentin. “But there is another
entrance at the rear of the temple. We will try that, having come this far.”
  The two moved like shadows under the high portico of the temple and
reached the far south side, that which overlooked the peaceful valley.
They walked along the side of the temple, the moonlight falling in slanting
rays, forming bands of light and shadow under the mighty eaves.
  “Listen,” said Toli. “Voices.”
  Quentin paused and cocked his head to one side. Voices from a little
way ahead and below them carried on the still air. The sound was but a
dull murmur, barely recognizable.
  They continued more cautiously and the voices grew louder. Soon the
travelers were crouching behind the immense columns of the temple,
looking down upon a small circle of robed men bent over a shining object.
  “They are star searching,” remarked Quentin excitedly. “And look—that
one in the center. I think I know that shape.”
  Quentin stepped boldly out of the shadow of the column and descended
a few steps toward the group. He took a deep breath and said in a loud
voice, “Priests of Ariel, will you receive two curious pilgrims?”
  The startled priests turned around quickly and beheld the figures of two
young men descending toward them.
  The priest in the center of the huddle stepped forward and replied,
“Pilgrims are always welcome to the shrine of Ariel, though most choose
to make oblations in the light of day.”
  “We do not come to make oblations, or to inquire of the god Ariel, but
of a priest instead.”
  “Priests are but the servants of their god; it is he who declares his will!”
  ‘Neither do we ask for the god’s interest in any affairs of ours,” said
Quentin approaching the priest. He could see the man’s face full in the
moonlight now and knew that he addressed his old tutor. “We would
speak to you man to man.”
   Quentin smiled as a faint glimmer of recognition lit the priest’s visage.
   “My heart tells me that I should know you, sir,” said the High Priest
slowly. The old eyes searched the young man’s features for a clue which
might tell him who it was that addressed him. “But a name does not come
to my lips. Have we met then?”
   Quentin moved closer and placed his hands on the priest’s rounded
shoulders. “Is the life of a priest so busy that he has no time for
memories?”
   “Memories do not walk the temple yards by night, nor do they confront
their bearers face to face.”
   “Then perhaps you will remember this.” Quentin dug into the pouch at
his belt and produced a silver coin. He handed it to the priest.
   “This is a temple coin. Then you must be...”
   “You gave me that coin yourself, Biorkis; many years ago.”
   “Quentin? Is this Quentin the acolyte?” the old man sputtered.
   “Yes, I have returned to see you, my old friend—for so I always
considered you.”
   “But how you have changed. You have grown up a fine man. You are
well—as I can see. What brings you here tonight of all nights?”
   The other priests looked upon this reunion in wonder. They gathered
close around to see who this returned stranger might be.
   “Can we walk a little aside?” asked Quentin. “I have something to ask
you.”
   The two moved off, followed closely by Toli. The priests fell to
murmuring their amazement and talking among themselves.
   “Your name has grown in the land,” said Biorkis as they walked to a
rocky outcropping at the edge of the plateau.
   “Oh? You hear tales up here, do you?”
   “We hear what we wish to hear. The peasants bring us no end of
information. Some of it is useful. But you are known as the Prince who
saved the Dragon King and defeated the monstrous sorcerer, Nimrood.”
   “It was not I who defeated Nimrood, but Toli here, my servant and
friend.”
   Biorkis bowed to Toli and indicated that they should all seat themselves
upon the rocks. “They also say that you are building a city in the
Wilderlands which rises by magic from the stones of the earth.”
   “Again, that is not my doing. Dekra is my city only in that the gracious
Curatak have allowed me to join in their work of restoring it to its former
glory.”
   “This is what the people say, not I. As for myself, I surmise that the
truth of these stories is to be found at the heart—like the stone of an
apricot. But I know from this that my former acolyte is doing well and has
risen in the esteem of his countrymen. But why should you seek me out
now? The temple doors have not been closed these many years.”
   “We come to ask your opinion of something we have seen.” Quentin
turned toward the east and pointed out across the quiet, moon-filled valley.
“That star rising yonder. The Wolf Star. Has it not changed in some way
of late? Do the priests detect a waxing of its power?”
   “So you have not forsaken your studies altogether. You still seek signs
in the night sky.”
   “No, I must admit that I no longer study the stars in their courses. This
event was pointed out to me by Toli, who remarked on it a few nights
ago.”
   “Well, your Toli is right. In fact, we have been following this star with
interest for many months. Tonight, as you have seen, we were once more
examining the charts and seeking an answer to this wonder.”
   “Then you do not know what this sign portends?”
   “Does one ever?” Biorkis laughed. “Why do you look so shocked? A
priest may have doubts—even the High Priest. Ah, but we have our
theories. Yes, many theories.”
   “That is what we have come to hear—your theories. What do you think
it means?”



                               FOUR
  DURWIN’s LONG brown robes swept along behind him as he rushed
along the darkened corridors of Askelon Castle. Torches lit the way,
sputtering in the gusty air as Durwin hurriedly passed. Ahead of him he
could see a pair of doors which opened onto a patch of the night sky
infused with the moon’s radiant beams.
  He stepped across the threshold and onto the balcony, then paused.
There, a few paces from him, stood the slim figure of a woman; her dark
hair tumbled down in shimmering ringlets and curls and her face was
averted, revealing the shapely beauty of her slender neck. She was dressed
in a loose-fitting gown of white held at her trim waist by a long blue sash
which trailed nearly to the ground.
  “Your Majesty,” said Durwin, softly announcing himself. “I am here.”
  The woman turned and smiled.
  “Good Durwin, thank you for coming so quickly.”
  “Bria... I thought...”
  “You thought I was the Queen, I know. But it was I who sent you the
summons.”
  “You look so much like your mother standing there with the moonlight
in your hair.”
  “I will accept that as a compliment, kind sir. For me there is none
higher. But you must be tired from your journey. I will not keep you, but I
must speak to you a little. Do sit down, please.”
  She raised her arm and indicated a stone bench a short space away.
Durwin took her arm and walked with her along the balcony. “The night is
beautiful, is it not?” he said.
  “Yes... it is very.” The young woman spoke as if she had just become
aware that it was night. The hermit could tell she had something on her
mind which disturbed her.
  “I would not have troubled you, but I could think of no better help than
to have you here. Theido is gone, and Ronsard with him.”
  “It is nothing, my Lady. I am only too glad to know that this old hermit
may still be of some use to those who dwell in Castle Askelon. I would
have come sooner if I had known—your courier had quite a time finding
me. I was in the forest gathering herbs and tending to the illness of a
peasant’s wife nearby.”
  “I knew you would come as soon as you could. I—” the Princess broke
off, unable to say what she felt in her heart.
  Durwin waited and then said, “What is the matter, Bria? You may speak
freely. I am your friend.”
   “Oh, Durwin!” Her hands trembled, and her head sank. She buried her
face in her hands, and he thought she would cry. But she drew a deep
breath and raised her face to the moon, clear-eyed. In that moment the
young woman reminded him more than ever of another woman who bore
an immense inner strength in times of great distress—Queen Alinea.
   “It is the King,” said Bria at last. “Oh, Durwin, I am very worried. He is
not like himself. I think he is very ill, but he will see none of his doctors.
He laughs at any suggestion I make regarding his health. My mother is
worried, too. But she can do nothing either. And there is something else.”
   Durwin waited patiently.
   “I do not know what it is—trouble, I think. Somewhere.” She turned and
fixed the hermit with a smile which, though it graced her mouth, did not
light her eyes as it normally would. “Quentin is coming.”
   “Yes, I know, in a few weeks. We are all going to celebrate
Midsummer’s Day together.”
   “No—he is coming now. Eskevar sent for him. Even knowing that he
would come for Midsummer, the King sent a special courier to bring him.
That is how I know there is something wrong.”
   “It could just be that he wishes to see him the sooner—just a whim,
that’s all.”
   Bria smiled again. “Thank you for that, but you know the Dragon King
as well as I do. He does nothing on a whim. He has some reason for
wanting him here. But what it is I cannot guess.”
   “Then we will wait and see. When will Quentin be here?”
   “If he left upon receiving the summons, I believe he would be here day
after tomorrow—the day after that at the latest.”
   “Good. That is not so long to wait—you will see. In the meantime I will
try to discover what ails the King—in body or in spirit. Anything that may
be done, I will do. Worry no more on it, my Lady.”
   “Thank you, fair friend. You will not tell them that I sent for you?”
   “No, if you would rather not. I will just say that I grew weary of my
books and medicines and desired the warmth of fellowship with my
friends. I came early to the celebration, that is all.”
   “I feel better already knowing you are here.”
   “I am content. Though I imagine you would rather a certain younger
man stood here right now.”
   Bria smiled, and this time the light sparkled in her deep green eyes. “Oh,
I’ll not deny it. But I am content to wait. It does cheer me somewhat to
know that he comes the sooner.”
   They talked some more and then rose; Bria bade Durwin a good night.
Durwin escorted her to the door back into the castle and then turned to
stroll along the balcony alone.
   He leaned his arms on the parapet and looked into the gardens below. In
the moonlight he saw a solitary figure pacing among the beds of ruby
roses, now indigo in the moonlight. He could not see who this person
might be, but it was clear from the altered gait that the walker had fallen
prey to a melancholy mood. He hunched forward and crossed his arms on
his chest, stopped and started continually.
   Durwin looked on, and then the figure seemed to sense that he was
being watched. He stopped and drew himself up and turned to look
quickly into the balcony. Durwin drew away, but he had seen what he had
already guessed. In the moment the face swung around, the moonlight
illumined it and Durwin knew that it was Eskevar, the Dragon King.
   Biorkis’ long white braided beard, the symbol of his office, glowed like
a bright waterfall frozen in the moonlight. His wrinkled face, though still
as round and plump as ever, looked itself a smaller moon returning its
reflected light to a larger parent. He gazed long into the sky and then said,
“It may be something, or it may not. The heavens are filled with signs and
wonders, and not all of them have to do with men.”
   “If you thought that, would you be standing out in the night stargazing?”
   “No, likely not. But this is a most peculiar phenomenon—one does not
see such a sign but once in a lifetime, perhaps not even then. To chart its
progress would be of value aside from any meaning we might derive from
its study.”
   “You evade my question, Biorkis. Why? Certainly the star is there for
all to see and make what they will of it.”
   An expression of great weariness appeared on the face of the High Priest
as he turned to regard Quentin. “To the best of my knowledge this star is
an evil sign.”
   He had spoken simply and softly. But the effect produced within
Quentin chilled his blood; he fancied the air had grown suddenly colder.
   Quentin sought to lighten the remark. “Omens are always either good or
bad, depending upon the reader.”
   “Ah, but the greater the sign, the greater the consequence. And this is a
great sign indeed. Surpassingly great.”
   Quentin raised his eyes to the eastern sky and regarded the star carefully.
It was bright, yes, but there were other stars nearly as bright. He looked
back at Biorkis with a questioning glance.
   “It has only begun to show itself,” said the High Priest in answer to the
look. “With every passing night it grows brighter, and so does the evil it
portends.”
   “What is the nature of this evil? Can you tell?”
   “Evil is evil, you know that. What does it matter? The suffering will be
great in any case. Flood, famine, pestilence, war—all are the same; all
destroy in their turn.”
   “Well said. Your words are true. But men may do much to prepare
against an evil time, if they but know its source.”
   “Here is where our theories guide us. Some say that the star will grow
and grow until it fills the sky, blotting out the sun and moon and stars.
Then it will touch the earth and drive all living things insane before
consuming them with fire.
   “Others say that each nation has a star and that this Wolf Star represents
a fierce and brutal nation which rises against other nations and seeks to
extinguish them with its power.
   “Still others regard this as the beginning of the end of mankind on the
earth. This star is the token of Nin, the destroyer god who brings his
armies down to make war on the nations of the earth.”
   “And you, Biorkis, what do you say?”
   “I believe all are right. Some part of every guess will be shown in the
truth.”
   “When may that truth be evident?”
   “Who can say? Much that is foretold does not come to pass. Our best
divinations are only the mumblings of blind men.” Biorkis turned his face
away. “Nothing is certain,” he said softly. “Nothing is certain.”
   Quentin stood, went to the old priest and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Old man, come with us. You have lived long enough to see the gods for
what they are. Let us show you a god worthy of your devotion, the Most
High, Lord of All. In him you will find the peace you seek. You told me
once that you sought a brighter light.”
  Biorkis looked at him wearily. “You remember that?”
  “Yes, and more. I remember you were my only friend in the temple.
Come with us now and let us show you the light you have been seeking
for so long.”
  Biorkis sighed, and it seemed as if all the earth groaned with a great
exhaustion. “I’m old—too old to change. Yes, these eyes have searched
for the truth, but it has been denied them. I know the hollowness of
serving these petty gods, but I am High Priest. I cannot go with you now.
Maybe once I could have turned away—as Durwin did, as you have—but
not now. It is too late for me.”
  Quentin looked sadly down on his old friend. “I am sorry.”
  Toli had risen and was moving away. Quentin turned and looked back at
Biorkis who still remained perched upon a rock, looking out into the
peaceful valley. “It is not too late. You have only to turn aside and he will
meet you. The decision is yours.”
  Quentin and Toli walked down the sinuous trail side by side without
speaking. When they reached the meadow and the dimly glowing embers
of their fire Quentin said, “You knew the star to be an evil sign, didn’t
you?”
  “Yes. I considered it so.”
  “But you suggested we go to the temple. Why?”
  “I wanted to hear what other learned men might say. For all their
spiritual uncertainties, the priests are still men of great knowledge.”
  “And did Biorkis confirm your worst fears?”
  “Biorkis spoke what may be, not what will be. Only the God Most High
can say what will be. His hand is ever outstretched to those who serve
him.”
  “Weil, if Biorkis is right in his speculations, then we will have need of
that strong hand before long, I fear.”
                                 FIVE
   “THE EARTH moves through stages, epochs. The ancient legends tell
of previous earth ages—four at least. We are living in the fifth age of man.
Each age runs its allotted course and then gives birth to a new age.”
Durwin spread his hands out on the table. Quentin, his dun in his hands,
stared at the holy hermit in rapt attention. Around them in Durwin’s
chambers, candles flickered and filled the room with a hazy yellow glow.
   “These ages may run a thousand years or ten thousand. Of course, there
is no way to tell how long it may last, but the ancients believed that before
the end of each age the world is thrown into turmoil. Great migrations of
people commence; great wars are fought as nation rises against nation; the
heavens are filled with signs and wonders. Then comes the deluge: all the
earth is flooded, or covered with ice. Then fire burns the earth and erases
all signs of the preceding age. It is a time of chaos and darkness, great
cataclysms and death. But out of it comes a new age, both finer and higher
than the one before.”
   As Durwin spoke, an eerie sense of dreadful fascination crept over
Quentin. He shrugged it off and asked, “But must the earth be destroyed
completely for a new age to be born?”
   Durwin mused on this question, but before he could open his mouth to
speak, Toli answered, “Among my people there are many stories of the
times before this one. It is said that the Jher came into being in the third
age, when the world was still very young and men talked with the animals
and lived in peace with one another.
   “These stories are very old; they have been with us longer than the art of
our oldest storytellers to remember. But it is said that the destruction of the
world may be averted by some great deed—though what it is that may be
done is not known.
   “Tilgal, the Star Maker’s son, is said to have saved the world in the
second age by hitching his horses to his father’s chariot and carrying off
Morhesh, the Great Evil One, after wounding him with a spear made of a
single shaft of light. He threw Morhesh into the Pit of the Night, and
Morhesh’s star was extinguished so the earth did not burn.”
   Durwin nodded readily. “So it is! As I was about to say, it is believed
that not every age must end in calamity. The destruction may be lessened
or turned aside completely—usually by some act of heroism, some
supreme sacrifice or the coming of a mighty leader to lead mankind into
the new age.”
  “Do you believe this?” Quentin asked.
  “I believe that what has happened in the past beyond men’s
remembering did happen. Those who witnessed it explained it as well as
they could with the words and ideas they had available to them. Certainly,
much remains unexplained; but it seems strange that each race has
somewhere in its past memories of this sort.”
  Quentin leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table and clasped
his hands. “I meant, do you believe that the star in the sky betokens the
end of the age?”
  Durwin pulled on his chin and scratched his jaw. He looked at Quentin
with quick, black eyes and smiled suddenly. “I believe a new age is
coming, yes. Such as the world has never known. A time of mighty
upheaval and change. And I believe change does not take place without
struggle, without pain. So it is!”
  “It all seems very grim to me,” admitted Quentin.
  “You should not think of the pain involved,” responded Toli “Think
instead of the greater glory of the new age.”
  Toli and Quentin had ridden from Narramoor to Durwin’s cottage in
Pelgrin Forest. They made good time and arrived late in the afternoon, just
as the sun slipped into the treetops.
  “Durwin is not here,” said Toli as they approached the cottage. They
looked around before Quentin went inside. He returned without a clue to
where the hermit might be.
  “He may be away only for a short while, perhaps tending someone
nearby. Maybe he will return by nightfall, but I think not. His cloak is
gone and his pouch, though his bag of medicines is inside.”
  They had then decided to ride through the night and reached Askelon’s
mighty gates as the moon set in the west. Not wishing to disturb the
servants or awaken the King and Queen, they went instead to the
chambers kept for Durwin when he was in residence at the castle. There,
to their surprise and pleasure, they found the hermit slumped in his chair
with a scroll rolled up on his lap. He was sound asleep and snoring.
  Upon their entrance, despite their attempts to be quiet, Durwin
awakened and greeted them warmly. “You have ridden all night! You are
hungry; I will fetch you some food from the kitchen.”
  He hurried away with a candle in his hand, while Quentin and Toli
pulled off their cloaks, dipped their hands in the basin and attempted to
wash away their fatigue. They then settled themselves, exhausted, into
chairs and dozed until Durwin returned with bread and cheese and fruit he
had filched from the pantry.
  “Here, sit at this table and eat while I tell you what I have been doing
since last we met.” Durwin told them of his studies and his healing work
among the peasants, and at last Quentin told him about their audience with
Biorkis and their discussion about the star which nightly grew brighter.
  They had talked long and late. At last they rose from the table and
turned to curl themselves in their chairs to sleep. Just then a barely audible
knock sounded on Durwin’s door. Quentin said, “Durwin, you have a
visitor, I believe. Do you entertain so late at night?”
  “I, as you well know, did not expect a single person in my chambers
tonight and I find not one, but two. So now I entertain any possibility!
Open the door and let them in, please.”
  Quentin stepped to the door and opened it. He was not prepared for the
greeting he received.
  “Quentin, my love. You are here!” Instantly Quentin’s arms were
thrown wide as he swept up a young woman in a long white woolen robe
and buried his face in her hair.
  “Bria! I did not know how much I missed you until this moment.”
  The two lovers clung in a long embrace, breaking off suddenly when
they remembered that they were not alone. Quentin set his lady back upon
her slippered feet and drew her into the room. Durwin and Toli smiled as
they looked on.
  “What brings you to this hermit’s chambers so late at night?” Quentin
asked in mock challange.
  “Why, I was passing without and I fancied I heard voices. I fancied one
of them was yours, my love.”
  “Ah! Your lips utter the answer my ears long to hear. But come, I have
much to tell you. Much has happened since I was with you last.”
  “Not here you don’t!” replied Durwin. “In a very short time this
chamber will ring with the snores of the sleeping! You two doves must
take your cooing elsewhere.” He beamed happily as he shooed them out
the door.
   Quentin and Bria walked hand in hand along the darkened passageway
and out onto the same balcony the Princess and Durwin had occupied only
a night before.
   As Quentin opened the balcony door, the faint light of a glowing sky
met his eyes. Dawn’s crimson fingers stretched into the sky in the east,
though the sun lingered below the far horizon and one or two stars could
still be seen above.
   “I have missed you, my darling,” sighed Bria. “My heart has mourned
your absence.”
   “I am here now, and with you. I find my greatest happiness when I am at
your side.”
   “But you will leave again—too soon, I fear. My father has a task for
you, and we will be separated again.”
   “Do you know what it is?”
   Bria shook her head.
   “Then how do you know it will take me away from you so suddenly?”
   “A woman knows”
   “Well, then, we will have to make each moment we are together so
much the sweeter.” So saying, Quentin pulled her to him gently and kissed
her. She wound her arms around him and rested her head upon his chest.
   Quentin looked at the placid sky as its rosy red brightened to a golden
hue. The mighty ramparts of Askelon Castle gleamed like burnished gold,
magically transformed from their ordinary state of dull stone by the
dawn’s subtle alchemy.
   “Quentin—” Her voice was small and frightened. “What is happening? I
am afraid, though I do not know why. The King holds his own counsel and
will see no one. And when I ask him about affairs in the realm, he only
smiles and pats my hand and tells me that a Princess should think of only
happy things and not concern herself with mundane matters.
   “I am worried for him. Oh, Quentin, when you see him you will know—
he is not well. He is pale and drawn. Some dark care sits heavily upon his
brow. My mother and I know not what to do.”
   “Calm yourself, Bria, my love. If there is anything I may do to ease his
mind, count on it that it shall be done. And if medicines have any effect,
Durwin will know it and will avail.
   “And yet, I must confess that I am troubled, too. But by nothing so
easily explained—would that it were. I would give a fortune to any who
could calm the turmoil I feel growing inside me.
   “There is trouble, Bria. I feel it, though all about me appears peaceful
and serene. I start at shadows, and night gives no rest; it is as if the wind
itself whispers an alarm to my ears, but no sound is heard.”
   Bria sighed deeply and clutched him tighter. “What is happening? What
will become of us, my darling?”
   “I do not know. But I promise you this: I will love you forever.”
   They held each other for awhile, and the new sun rose and filled the sky
with golden light.
   “See how the sun banishes the darkness. So love will send our troubles
fleeing far from us—I promise.”
   “Can love accomplish so much, do you think?” Bria said dreamily.
   “It can do all things.”



                                   SIX
  “GOOD THEIDO, I say we should turn back. We have already come
too far, and it is past the time when we should have been in Askelon. The
King will be fearing our disappearance soon, if not already.”
  “But we have not seen what we came to see: the enemy, if there is one.
We would be remiss if we returned now. Our task is not completed.”
  Ronsard sat hunched in the saddle, one arm resting on the pommel, the
other bent around behind him as he pressed his hand into the small of his
back. “If I do not get off this horse soon, I may never walk again.”
  “Since when have you become fond of walking? The Lord High
Marshall of the Realm should set a better example for his men,” joked
Theido, swiveling in his saddle to cast an eye upon the four knights
behind.
  “My men know me for what I am,” said Ronsard. “But I jest not when I
say that we should return at once. It is no light thing to keep a King
waiting.”
  “Nor is it meet to bring him useless information—the one would foil his
purpose as easily as the other.” Theido turned his horse and brought
himself close to Ronsard. “But I will tell you what we shall do, so that I
may hear the end of your complaining. We will send one of the knights
back with a message of what we have discovered so far, and of our
intention of continuing until we are satisfied.”
  “Fair enough. Also relay that we will return at the earliest we may, by
the most expeditious means, with a full report.”
  “Agreed.” Theido turned his sun-browned face toward the place where
the knights waited, resting their mounts before continuing on their
journey. “Martran! Come up here.” He signaled one of them.
  The knight approached his leaders on foot and saluted. “Martran, you
are to ride to the King at once and deliver this message: we are continuing
on our mission and are sorry for the delay in returning to him sooner. Tell
him also that we will come hence as soon as we are satisfied that we have
obtained that which we seek, or have some better report to give him. Do
you understand?”
  “Yes, my lord,” replied the knight crisply.
  “Repeat the message,” ordered Ronsard.
  The knight repeated the message word for word with the same inflection
given the words as Ronsard himself had used. “Very well,” said Ronsard.
“Be on your way. Stop for nothing and no one.”
  The knight saluted again and walked back to his horse. He mounted and
rode off at once, without looking back.
  “Now then,” said Theido, snapping his reins impatiently, “let us go
forth.”
  Ronsard raised himself in his saddle and called to the remaining knights.
“Be mounted! Forward we go!”
  Since leaving Askelon they had ridden further and further south, first to
Hinsenby and then along the coast as it dipped toward the Suthland region
of Mensandor. They had passed through Persch and a host of peasant
villages unnamed on any map.
  Now they approached a rocky stretch of coastland which rose in sharp
cliffs at the brink of the sea. This was where the Fiskill Mountains spent
themselves in their southernmost extremity. The crags marched right down
to the sea, and there the land dropped away as if it had been divided by the
chop of an axe. The sea lay crowded with jagged teeth of immense rocks,
some as big as islands, though they jutted sharply out of the ocean’s swell,
bare and lifeless, uninhabited except as roosts for myriads of squawking
sea-birds.
   A narrow, treacherous track climbed upward through the cliffs and
entwined itself among the tors. Now it cut through a wall of rock so
narrow that a man’s outstretched hands touched either side, and now it
swung out upon the sheer cliff face where one misstep would send horse
and rider hurtling down into the churning sea.
   They halted.
   “I suggest we stop here for the night. I would not like to trust that trail
by night; it is bad enough in the daylight.”
   “Very well,” agreed Ronsard. “A fresh start at it in the morning would
not be disagreeable to me.”
   They removed themselves but a little away from the trail and set about
making camp for the night. As the sun slid down below the dark rim of the
sea, the birds fluttered to the roosting rocks and the evening trembled with
their noisy calls.
   After a while the moon ascended and cast its pale light all around. The
tired men dozed and talked in hushed tones.
   “Listen!” said Ronsard abruptly. All lapsed into silence and sifted the
soft sea breeze for sounds. The only sound to reach their ears was the
faraway roll of the waves crashing against the rocks and slapping against
the cliff walls.
   Theido cast a wondering glance toward his old friend.
   “Oh, I guess it was nothing,” said Ronsard, but he still peered intently
into the night as if listening for the sound to repeat itself.
   In a moment he was on his feet, pacing uneasily about the camp, just out
of the circle of the firelight. Then he walked a short way along the road
and stood for a long time looking toward the cliff trail. Theido watched
him narrowly and was not surprised when the brawny knight came
hurrying back.
   “What is it?”
   “Someone is coming! Up there in the cliffs—I am certain of it!”
   He ordered his knights in a harsh whisper, “Put out the fire and take the
horses aside. Hide yourselves and watch me for a signal!”
  In the space of five heartbeats the small camp was deserted, and no sign
remained that only a moment before five knights had been encamped
there.
  Then Ronsard and Theido sat down to wait in the dark alongside the
road, hidden from view by a low-lying clump of harts-tongue. Shortly
there could be heard the minute sounds of a group of people hurrying
along the path, desperately trying to pass unseen: the rattling echo of a
stone dislodged by a careless foot, the muffled creak of a wheel upon the
rock, a cough.
  Then their murky shapes could be seen against the night sky as they
drew nearer. They were on foot, and there were smaller shadows among
the larger ones. They huddled together in a close knot, rather than ranging
themselves along the trail; they evidently feared separation more than
detection.
  “It is no army,” breathed Ronsard between clenched teeth. He let his
breath out slowly. “But now to find out who they are and why they risk the
cliffs in the night—the very thing we declined to do.”
  “We had a choice; perhaps they felt they had none,” replied Theido.
  Ronsard rose from his place and stepped near to the trail, just ahead of
the nocturnal travelers’ leader. When the man approached close at hand,
Ronsard said in a loud, steady voice, “Halt, friend! In the name of the
Dragon King!”
  A shriek and a stifled oath came from the main body of the group. But
the man stopped dead in his tracks and looked about him for the source of
the unexpected command. Ronsard stepped closer, and the moonlight fell
on his face. He smiled and held up his hands to show the frightened
travelers that he meant them no harm.
  “Wh—what do you w—want?” the leader managed to stammer.
  “I wish to speak with you—that is all. I will not detain you long.”
Ronsard still spoke in the same steady voice, loud enough for all to hear.
  “Who are you?”
  “I am the Lord High Marshall of Mensandor,” replied Ronsard. “Who
are you, and whither do you run by the light of the moon?”
  “Oh, sir!” gasped the relieved man. “You do not jest? You are really a
King’s man?”
   “At your service. Are you in trouble?”
   At this all the people rushed forward and drew close around Ronsard as
if to seek the protection of his title, a welcome shield over their heads.
They all began to shout.
   Theido crept from his hiding place and came to stand beside Ronsard,
who held up his hands and called for quiet. “I think I would better hear the
tale from only one mouth at a time. You are the leader of this band.” He
pointed to the man he had addressed at first. “You begin.”
   The man’s face shone pale in the moonlight, but Theido got the
impression that it would be pale in bright daylight as well. Deep lines of
fear were drawn on the man’s countenance. His eyes did not hold steady,
but shifted to the right and left and all around as if to warn him of the
imminent approach of an enemy.
   “I... we...” The man’s mouth worked like a pump, but words were slow
in coming.
   “It is all right; you are safe for the time. I have soldiers with me, and we
will defend you at need.” Ronsard raised his arm in signal and his knights
came forward to stand along the trail, their hands upon the hilts of their
long swords.
   Their presence seemed to frighten the man rather than calm him.
   “Come, you may speak freely,” said Theido in a gentle voice.
   “We are from Dora,” the leader managed to squeak out at length. “We
have left our homes and carry all our belongings with us. We are going to
the High Temple.” He paused, gulped air and plunged ahead. “We know
not where else to go.”
   “It is a strange pilgrimage you make, friend,” observed Ronsard. “Why
do you leave your homes and flee by night?”
   “Have you not heard? They are coming... a terrible host, terrible. They
have landed at Halidom, and they are coming. Why, we are fleeing for our
lives to the protection of Ariel! Only the god can save us now.”
   “Who is coming? Have you seen anyone?”
   The man looked at Ronsard wide-eyed with disbelief. “Do you not
know? How is this possible? The whole land is in turmoil! We are fleeing
for our lives!”
   The people began to shout again, each pouring out his heart, beseeching
the King’s men to help them escape. Ronsard and Theido listened and
drew aside to confer. “Something has frightened these people, that much is
clear. Though what remains a mystery. I can make no sense out of it.”
Ronsard scratched his jaw.
   Theido called the leader over to where they stood. “Good sir, have you
seen someone? This enemy you flee from? Do you know from whence he
comes?”
   The man hesitated. “Well... we have seen no one. But we dared not wait.
Two days ago, men of Halidom in the Suthlands came to Dora, and they
told us of terrible things which had happened there. A mighty enemy has
risen up and drives all before him. Their city was burned, and the streets
ran with the blood of their children and women. Those that would save
their lives fled to the hills. So we flee while we still may.”
   “This enemy—did you hear a name?”
   “It is too terrible to say!” The man threw his hands heavenward in
supplication.
   “Terrible it may be, but we will hear it. Tell what you know,”
commanded Ronsard. His authoritative tone seemed to have a calming
effect upon the frightened peasant.
   He looked from one to the other of them and said, his voice now a
strained whisper, “It is Nin the Destroyer!”



                              SEVEN
  THEIDO LOOKED blankly at Ronsard and then back at the frightened
peasant. The man’s eyes glittered wide and round in the moonlight. He
had scarcely dared utter his enemy’s name, and his tongue had frozen in
his mouth. But as appalling as the name was to the peasant—enough at
least to inspire a whole village to flight at the very, sound of it—the name
meant nothing to Theido or Ronsard.
  “I have never heard this name,” said Theido. Ronsard shook his head
and looked hard at the peasant.
  “Is there another name by which this enemy may be known? We know
nothing of this Nin or his armies.”
  “No—there is no other name I know.”
   “Halidom was destroyed? These men that came to Dora, they saw it
destroyed?”
   “Yes, so they said. Some of them had lost everything—home and
family, possessions—everything.”
   Theido turned to Ronsard. “There is where we will find our answer—at
Halidom.”
   “So it would seem. We will go there and see what may be seen. The
King will want to know in any case.” He turned back to the leader of the
fleeing people. “This Nin you speak of—he was moving toward Dora, you
say? How did you know if you did not see him?”
   “The men of Halidom told us. The enemy ranges the whole countryside.
No place is safe from him. That is why we go to the High Temple at
Narramoor to ask the god to protect us.”
   “There may be a safer place than even the temple,” said Theido. “I have
lands at Erlott which need the work of many hands. Go there and present
yourself to my steward, called Toflin. Tell him his master sends you to
him that he may give you shelter and food and land to work. And give him
this.” Theido drew a small round token from the pouch at his belt: a clay
tile baked hard with his signet pressed into it.
   The peasant stared at the signet tile and then at Theido. He seemed as
much dismayed by it as by Nin himself. “Are we to be sold into slavery
because we have no place to go? We have left our homes to become serfs
of the King’s men?” He had spoken loudly, and there came a murmur
from the rest of the group standing a little way off.
   “My offer,” explained Theido, “is honorable. You may take it or no. I do
not withdraw it. I keep no serfs; all who work my lands are free and enjoy
the fruits of their labors in equal share. If you doubt my words, go there
and see for yourselves. In any case you are free to leave or stay once you
have seen. No one compels you to do as I bid.
   “Only know this: if you stay, you will be required to do your share and
to work the land that is given you. If you do not, your place will be given
to another who will.”
   The man looked at the token in Theido’s hand. He reached out for it
hesitantly, casting a sideways glance to the others in his band.
   “We, too, are honorable, though we are but men of low birth.” He
snatched the tile out of Theido’s hand. “We will go to your lands at Erlott
and inquire of your steward; we will see how he receives us. If he bears
the good will of his master, you will find us busy in your fields when you
return from your duties.” He bowed stiffly from the waist and turned to
go. He paused and turned again. “If it be as you say, you have our thanks,
my lord.”
   “I do not ask for thanks, but only that you will do as we have agreed.
That shall be to me more than gratitude itself.”
   The man bowed again and went to where his people waited to learn the
outcome of the interview just concluded. Words were exchanged quickly;
there were mumbled whispers all around, and suddenly the band was on
it’s way again, but bolder this time and changed in mood. Several of the
refugees waved their thanks to Theido as they passed, and all talked
excitedly together as they moved hurriedly away down the trail.
   “Well, you have done your fellows a fine service this night. I hope you
will not have cause to regret your kindness,” said Ronsard when they had
gone.
   “One never regrets a kindness, my friend. But I have no doubt that I
have gained as much as they in the bargain.”
   “How so?”
   “Good land needs the plowman’s hand to bring it to life and a husband
to care for it. If I did not have men to work my fields, they would soon
become barren and worthless. These men do me great service by helping
me care for my lands. Rightly managed, there is more than enough for
everyone.”
   “Well, I hope we may see your trust proved true. But why not? The
realm has known nothing but peace these many years and we are at peace
still.”
   “I wonder,” replied Theido, “I wonder.”
   Quentin hastened along wide corridors lined with rich tapestries toward
the Dragon King’s apartments. Upon rising, he had been summoned to
meet with the King in his private council chambers, and had dressed in
fresh garments—a new tunic and trousers of forest green and a short
summer cloak of blue, edged in green and gold. The finely embroidered
cloak, fastened with a broach of gold at his shoulder, fluttered out behind
him as he swept along.
   Just as he stepped up to the door which opened onto Eskevar’s
apartments, the door swung inward and Oswald, the Queen’s chamberlain,
emerged. “Sir, if you would but come aside with me, my Lady would have
a word with you.”
   Oswald smiled his request, but his gray eyes insisted; so Quentin nodded
his assent and followed the chamberlain. They withdrew to a room just
across the corridor from the King’s chambers. Oswald knocked upon the
door and stepped in. “Quentin is here, Your Majesty.”
   Quentin stepped into the room behind the chamberlain and saw Queen
Alinea sitting on a bench in the center of the room with her hands folded
in her lap. Her eyes were bent toward the floor, but her look was faraway,
and Quentin saw lines of worry creasing her noble brow.
   When he had entered, the Queen sat up and her face was suddenly
transformed by a beautiful smile. Instantly the dim chamber seemed filled
with light. She rose as he came to her and held out her arms to embrace
him. Quentin hugged her and brushed her pale cheek with his lips; she
kissed both of his.
   “Quentin, you have come! Oh, I am so glad you are here. Your journey
was not unpleasant, I trust? It is good to have you back. The months seem
long when you are away.” She gripped his hand in both of hers and led
him to the bench. “Please, sit with me but a little.” To Quentin’s glance
she answered, “I know the King is waiting, but it is important. I would
have a word with you before you enter his presence.”
   Her sparkling green eyes, deep and serene as forest pools, searched his
for a moment, as if deciding whether the hearer would be strong enough to
bear the words she had to say. “Quentin,” she said softly, “the King is very
ill.”
   “So I have learned from Bria.” He blushed. “We met this morning when
I arrived. She told me of her concern for his health.”
   “But I think even Bria docs not guess how far he has fallen. She is
devoted to her father and loves him with all her heart, but she does not
know him as I do. Something consumes him before my eyes; it gnaws at
him from within, stealing his strength and sapping away his spirit.”
   Again in answer to Quentin’s look, she continued, “Do not wonder at
what I tell you; you will see for yourself soon enough. He has greatly
changed since last you saw him. It is all I can do to keep from weeping in
his presence.” She appeared to be on the verge of tears at that very
moment
  “My Queen, I am your servant. Say the word and I will do whatever you
require.”
  “Only this. Take no unusual notice of him when you go in to him; be to
him as normally. Do not let on that you believe him ill, or that I have told
you anything of his condition.”
  “I promise it. But is there nothing else I may do?”
  “No.” She patted his hand. “I know that you would if you could. But I
have sent for Durwin and have placed a heavy charge on him. It may take
all of his healing powers to restore the King—if he is not now beyond
them.”
  “I will pray to the Most High that Durwin’s cures may have effect.”
  “That is my course, as well,” smiled the Queen, and again the room
seemed lighter, for a dark cloud had passed over Quentin’s heart as they
talked. He rose more encouraged. “Go to him now, my son. And
remember what I told you.”
  “I will, my Lady. You need not fear.”
  Quentin quietly left the room, and when he had stepped back into the
corridor he found Oswald waiting for him. The chamberlain led him back
to the King’s chambers, knocked, then admitted him.
  “Your Majesty, Quentin is here.”
  Quentin drew a deep breath and stepped across the threshold. In the
center of the high-ceilinged chamber sat a heavy, round oaken table,
shaped liked the room itself, for it was a part of one of Askelon’s many
towers. Small round windows of amber glass tinted the afternoon light
with a warm hue. Eskevar was standing in a shaft of light from one of
these windows, his back turned, gazing out onto the courtyard below.
  There was an awkward moment when Quentin could not speak, and the
King did not seem to have heard the chamberlain’s announcement.
Quentin hesitated, feeling suddenly trapped. Then the King turned slowly
and fixed his eyes upon Quentin. A thin smile stretched his lips. “Quentin,
my son, you have come.”
  If not for the Queen’s warning, Quentin did not know what he would
have done. He bit his lower lip to stifle a cry and then recovered himself
and forced a grin.
  “I came as soon as I could. Toli’s horses are magnificent. I believe they
have wings. We flew over the land at a fair pace.”
   Still smiling—the sad, weak smile of a dying man, Quentin thought—
the King advanced slowly and offered his hand.
   Quentin took it without hesitation and could not help noticing how weak
the King’s grip had become, and how cold the feel of his hand.
   Eskevar’s flesh had taken on a waxen pallor, and his eyes seemed to
burn with a dull, feverish light. His lips were cracked and raw, and his
hair, that crowning glory of rich, dark curls, hung limp and lifeless and
had turned now almost completely gray.
   Quentin found himself staring at the face of a strange man who looked at
him intently with sunken eyes rimmed with dark circles. He looked away
quickly and said, “This is a cheery room, Sire. Will we be alone, or are
others expected?”
   “Others will come, but not yet. I wanted to speak to you alone first.
Please, sit down.” The King lowered himself slowly into a chair at the
round table, and Quentin followed. He wanted to weep at the sight of
Eskevar, the mighty Dragon King who was now tottering like an old man.
   How could this be? wondered Quentin. How could such a change be
wrought in such a short time? In a scant eight or nine months the King had
deteriorated to a shocking degree. Quentin wanted to dash from the room,
to remove himself far away from the creature who sat beside him and who
wore the King’s crown.
   Eskevar gazed into the young man’s eyes with a look of inexpressible
gentleness; a fatherly compassion which Quentin had never seen there
before suddenly flowered. Quentin was strangely moved and forgot for a
moment the horror of the King’s shattered health.
   “Quentin,” said Eskevar after a moment’s contemplation, “as you know,
I have no son, no heir to my throne save Bria. My brother, Prince Jaspin,
is banished, nevermore to return.
   “I think it time for me to choose my successor.”
   “Oh, no, Sire,” Quentin snapped. “Now is not the time to think of such
things. You have many years ahead of you. You are strong yet.”
   Eskevar shook his head slowly, frowning slightly. “No, it is not to be.
Quentin”—again the sweet, sad smile and fatherly glance—”Quentin, I am
dying.”
   “No!”
   “Yes! Hear me!” The King raised his voice. “Slowly it may be, but I am
dying. I shall not live to see another spring. It is time for me to set my
house in order.
  “I intend to choose you as my successor—wait! Since you are not in
direct bloodline, it will have to go before the Council of Regents. But I
expect no problem there. As I have chosen you myself, they will ratify my
choice gladly.”
  Quentin sat gazing at his folded hands, speechless. The King’s words
had stricken him mute.
  After what seemed like hours he looked up and saw Eskevar watching
him quietly, but intensely. “You honor me greatly, Sire. But I am not
worthy of such high accord. I am an orphan, and of no noble birth. I am
not worthy to be King.”
  “You, Quentin, are my ward. You have been a son to me as I have
watched you grow to manhood these last years. I want you, and no other,
to wear my crown.”
  “I do not know what to say, my Lord.”
  “Say but that you will do as I command; ease my heart in this matter.”
  Quentin stood up from his chair and then went down on his knees before
his King. “I am ever your servant, Sire. I will obey.”
  Eskevar placed a hand upon Quentin’s head and said, “I am contented.
Now my heart can rest.” He touched Quentin on the arm. “Rise, sir! One
king does not kneel to another. From this day on you are considered the
heir to the throne of Mensandor.”
  Just then there came a knock upon the chamber door and Oswald’s voice
could be heard calling, “The others have arrived, Your Majesty,” as the
door swung open.
  In walked Toli and Durwin. Toli hesitated at the sight of the King, but
Durwin did not flinch at all. He hurried to the table and, with a quick bow,
began talking of his travels, all the while keeping a close eye on the ailing
monarch as if weighing him for some remedy.
  “Good, good. Be seated both of you. We have a matter to discuss.”
  The King looked at his comrades closely and drew a deep, weary breath
before he began.
  “For some time I have been of an uneasy mind. Restless, hungry and
uneasy. At first I attributed this to the illness which consumes me, but it is
more than that, I fear. It is for Mensandor that my unease persists. There is
some distress in the realm.”
   The Dragon King spoke softly and distinctly, and Quentin realized that
Eskevar had so long been the head of his land that he had developed a
special feeling for it and knew instinctively when something was wrong. It
was as if a part of him were hurt and he felt the wound. He had discerned
trouble before anyone else had suspected even the slightest eddy in the
current of peace and prosperity that flowed throughout the kingdom.
   It struck him—absurdly at first, but with growing conviction—that
perhaps what ailed the land was the cause of the King’s distress as well.
   “To prove my intuition I summoned the faithful Theido and Ronsard to
me and sent them with a small force to discover, if they could, whence the
trouble came.
   “The time for their return is now past. I have received no word or sign
from them, and I am anxious for what may have befallen them. That is
why I have summoned you”—he nodded to Quentin and Toli. “It becomes
ever more urgent that we discover the source of our harm before it is too
late. There is evil afoot; I feel it. Each day it grows the stronger. If we do
not find it soon and crush it out...”
   “My Lord,” said Toli, “we have seen portents which would indicate the
prudence of your fears.”
   “And I as well,” agreed Durwin.
   Toli and Durwin shared with the King the signs they had observed,
foreshadows of an impending evil they could not identify. Quentin noted
that as his two comrades spoke, and especially when they mentioned the
Wolf Star, Eskevar appeared to fall even further beneath the weight of his
kingdom’s peril.
   After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, the King spoke
solemnly. “Quentin and Toli, my brave friends, we must discover wherein
our danger truly lies. My people require your courage.”
   “We will go at once and seek out this evil. And it may be we will find
good Theido and Ronsard, as well,” Toli offered boldly.
   Quentin said nothing but stared from one to another of the faces around
the table.
   “Very well,” sighed the King. “You know I would not send you out thus
if I thought it were but a small thing, or if another could serve as well.”
   He turned and looked at Durwin thoughtfully. “You, sir, I did not
summon, but as usual one who knows me better than I know myself has
doubtless interceded.” He smiled again, and Quentin saw a flicker of the
former man. The King continued, “I will detain you, good hermit, that you
may remain with me. I may soon have need of your ministrations, and
perchance your arts will be better employed here than on the back of a
horse.”
  “So it is,” replied Durwin. “I will abide.”
  The King rose with some difficulty and dismissed them, asking his two
warriors, “How soon will you ride?”
  “We will leave at once, Sire,” said Toli.
  “It is well; but stay and share at my table tonight at least. I want to see
my friends all together before...” He did not finish the thought.
  The three arose, bowed and went quietly out. At the door Quentin turned
and was about to speak. He looked at Eskevar, and his eyes filled with
tears; no words would come. He bowed quickly and then went out, too
overwhelmed to say what he felt in his heart.



                               EIGHT
  “THE VILLAGE has been subdued, Most Excellent One.” The rider
bowed low in his saddle. Behind him black smoke ascended in a thick,
dark column to be scattered by the wind blowing in from the sea. His
sorrel pony jerked its reins and tossed its head, its hide besmeared with
soot and dried blood. “There was no resistance.”
  Savage eyes watched the messenger from beneath the rim of an iron
helm ornamented with black plumes which fluttered like wings in the
wind. The warlord said nothing but turned his horse and started slowly
away. The messenger spurred his mount forward and drew up beside his
departing commander. “Is there something that has displeased you, my
Master?” The voice trembled anxiously.
  “No, it is well. Our task is complete. I will return to the ships; you will
accompany me. I may have need of a messenger.” He lifted himself in his
saddle and called to several riders who waited a little distance apart. The
riders held their helmets under one arm and stared impassively ahead at
the smoke curling upward.
  “You four”—the commander gestured with his gauntleted hand—“stay
with the men and occupy this place. You others will come with me. We
ride at once. Follow.”
  “But what is to be done with the prisoners, Most Excellent One?” called
the messenger after the dark retreating form. The warlord did not turn nor
look around, but the messenger heard the words drifting back to him.
  “Kill them,” his commander said.
  The room hung heavy with the pungent fragrance of burning incense,
and clouds of the aromatic vapor drifted about the great figure seated on a
throne of silk cushions. Tiny colored birds fluttered and chirped in cages
nearby, their songs accompanied by the soothing notes of a flute.
  Presently, the tinkling ring of a chime sounded in the passageway
beyond, followed by the rustle of clothing. The gigantic form seated on the
throne appeared to be asleep, for he did not move or acknowledge the
intrusion in any way. The huge head remained resting on the great barrel
of a chest. The meaty hands clasping one another in the wide lap remained
motionless, thumbs pressed together.
  “Immortal One, I have news,” said the minister who had just entered so
quietly. He waited on his knees with his forehead pressed to the floor,
hands thrust before him, palms upward.
  “You may speak, Uzla.” The voice seemed to fill the small room, even
though the words had been spoken quietly.
  “Your warlords have returned. And they bring tidings of victory. The
cities of the coast are subdued.”
  “Has a suitable residence been found for me?”
  “Alas, no, Immortal One, these were but small villages and none
possessed a dwelling worthy of your being. For this affrontery the villages
have been burned and the ashes scattered, lest the sight of them displease
you.”
  Nin the Destroyer looked darkly upon his most trusted minister. “This
land will feel my wrath!” he shouted. The birds trembled in their cages,
and the music stopped. Uzla, the prone minister, cowered below him on
the floor.
  “The wretches of this accursed land speak of many castles in the north,
and one in particular which may serve your needs while you sojourn here
to subject this land to your will.”
  “What is the name of this palace?”
  “It is called Askelon. It is the city of the high king of this land—one
known as the Dragon King.”
  “Ah,” said Nin softly. “The sound of these words pleases me. Say them
again.”
  “Askelon is the home of the Dragon King.”
  “It will be my home, and I will be the Dragon King. This pleases me. I
have never killed a dragon before—have I, Uzla?”
  “No, my Deity. Not to my knowledge.” He hastened to add, “That is,
unless in a previous life, of course.
  “Then I will look forward to that event with anticipation, and I will
savor the moment of its accomplishment.” He stood slowly. “Now, where
are my warlords?” Nin asked, his deep voice booming.
  “They await you on the beach,” replied Uzla. “I will summon them.”
  “No, I will go to them. They have achieved my desires and will be
rewarded by the sight of their god drawing near to them.”
  “As you command, Great One.”
  Uzla bowed again and raised himself from the floor. He turned and
withdrew to the hall and clapped his hands and shouted, “The Deity
walks! Kneel before him everyone!” He went before his sovereign,
clapping his hands and shouting the warning. Nin followed slowly,
balancing his immense bulk upon ponderous legs.
  As they reached a short flight of stairs which led upward to the deck of
the palace ship, Uzla clapped his hands again and eight attendants brought
a throne on poles. They placed the throne before their king, and he
lowered himself into it. Then, straining every muscle, the chair-bearers
climbed the steps, careful to keep the throne level, lest they incur the
wrath of their temperamental god. Soon they moved out upon the deck.
  Two more attendants waited on deck with large shades made of brilliant
feathers. As soon as Nin’s chair emerged out upon the deck, the huge,
burly head was shaded from the bright sunlight of a beautiful summer day.
The attendants swayed under the weight of their burden, but proceeded
down a long ramp which had been erected out over the shallow water from
the palace ship to the shore. The ramp terminated in a platform on the
beach, forming a dais from which Nin the Destroyer could command his
subjects.
   At the sight of this procession moving slowly down the ramp, the four
warlords dismounted and drew near to the dais, prostrating themselves in
the sand. The chair-bearers reached the platform and placed the mobile
throne squarely in the center of the dais, beneath a broad canopy of rich
blue silk. Then they withdrew to await their king’s command; they knelt
with their faces touching their knees.
   The blue silk ruffled in the soft sea breeze. Above the dais gulls wheeled
in the air and shrieked at the spectacle below. Nin raised his hands and
said, “Arise, my warlords. You may look upon your Deity.”
   The warlords, clad in their heavy armor, rose stiffly to their feet and
stood shoulder to shoulder before their patron.
   “I have seen your victory from afar,” Nin continued. “With my own
eyes I witnessed the flames of destruction. I am well-pleased. Now tell
me, my commanders, what is the strength of this land? Is there an army to
stand before the Destroyer’s blade?” He looked at the four fighting men
and nodded to one of them, who stepped forward slowly. “Gurd?”
   The warrior struck his heart with his closed hand; the mailed fist clanked
dully upon the bronze breastplate. His long straight black hair was pulled
tightly back and bound at the back of his head in a thick braid.
   Quick black eyes set in a smooth, angular red face watched Nin closely.
“I have seen no soldiers in the south, Immortal One. The peasant villages
were unprotected.”
   “Amut.”
   The warrior, a member of the yellow race, advanced. His gleaming head
was shaved completely bald, except for a short bob of hair which he wore
tied in a tight knot. On his cheeks and forehead were strange blue tattoos,
and a ragged scar streaked from the corner of one almond-shaped eye to
the base of a thick, muscular neck. “In the north we encountered no
soldiers, Great One. The cowardly populace fled before our arrows like
leaves before the storm.”
   “Luhak,” called Nin and the third warlord stepped forward.
   Luhak touched his bearded chin with a brown hand. His head was
covered in a helm of white horsehide which sprouted a short plume made
from a horse’s tail at its crest. He was tall and lean, and when he opened
his wide mouth to speak, a row of pointed white teeth flashed.
  “I encountered but one village in the mountainous interior of this land,
named Gaalinpor,” the warrior said. “No army could cross those
mountains in surprise. We may turn our eyes elsewhere.”
  “Boghaz.”
  The last warlord, a towering black man whose features were hidden
beneath the black veil which covered the lower part of his face, revealing
only the large, dark eyes, took his place beside the others. His head was
encased in a horn-covered, leather helmet, and he wore a breastplate made
of flat disks of horn which had been linked together with iron rings. A
long red cape fell from his shoulders to the heels of his black boots. At his
side he carried, as they all did, a curious curved sword with a thin,
tapering blade honed dagger-sharp on both edges.
  “And I, too, have seen no soldiers. The villages offered no resistance,
the blood of the stubborn ran red upon the ground, and their ashes
ascended to heaven in your honor, Immortal Nin.” With that the black
warrior touched his forehead and bowed low.
  “What land is this which builds no walls around its cities and leaves the
small villages unprotected? Here is wealth for the taking, my warlords.
We will push north to Askelon and there I will establish my palace, so that
I may be comfortable while bringing this land under my rule.
  “Go now and bring me word when the castle is mine, that I may come at
once and take possession of what I desire. But do not make sacrifice of the
King. I will have that pleasure for my own; his blood will flow for me
alone. Hear and obey.”
  The four commanders saluted Nin and backed away a few paces. Then
they turned, mounted their horses and galloped off together. Nin clapped
his hands, and the attendants sprang forward to begin the laborious process
of carrying their god back up the ramp and into the magnificent palace
ship.



                                NINE
 HEAVY DEW still clung to the leaves as the first rays of golden
morning broke upon the countryside. Near the sea such dew was common,
but it never ceased to delight Quentin when the sun struck each tiny
droplet of moisture and turned it into a glimmering gem. Each hillock and
bush seemed to acquire inestimable value.
  Toli’s high-spirited horses, now well-rested, pranced and jogged in the
cool morning air. Quentin himself lifted his voice in a hymn to the new
day. Toli, too, joined in and their voices rang in the dells.
  “Ah, it is good to be alive!” shouted Quentin, more for the joy of
shouting than for the sake of conversation.
  “This morning the saddle seems a friend to you,” called Toli, bouncing
along behind. “That is not the impression you gave me last night.”
  “In the morning the world is re-created. All things are made new—
including saddles.”
  “It is good to see my master in such high humor. For the last three days
one would have mistaken you for a growling bear—not that I noticed.”
  Quentin seemed to ignore the remark and they continued on as before,
the trappings of the horses jingling brightly as they cantered along. “I am
sorry if I have been out of sorts,” said Quentin after some time. “I have
had much on my mind these past days. It is like a shadow has been
hovering over me. But now I can see clearly again.”
  “That is well for both of us,” replied Toli in his usual elliptic style.
  The two riders approached and mounted the crest of a long, sloping hill.
Here they paused for a short while and contemplated the road before them
and the valley beyond, in the center of which lay the village of Persch.
  “See how quiet it is,” remarked Quentin as he gazed at the scene below.
“So peaceful. This is how it has been for a thousand years....” His voice
trailed off.
  “We will pray that it may remain so for another thousand,” answered
Toli. He flicked the reins and started down the road, a thin dirt trail barely
scratched in the long, thick green grass of the hills.
  As they drew nearer to the seaside village, Toli grew tense with
concentration. Quentin noticed the change in his companion’s attitude and
asked, “What is it? What do those eagle eyes of yours see?”
  “Nothing, master. And that is what worries me. I see no one—no
activity in the village at all.”
  “Perhaps the people of Persch are late abed and late to rise,” Quentin
said carelessly, attempting to maintain the mood of tranquillity which had
just been shattered by Toli’s observation.
   “Or maybe they have a reason for remaining behind doors on such a day
as this, though that reason is certain to be born of fear.”
   Quentin sighed. “It will not be the first time we have encountered such
this trip.” He placed his free hand on the hilt of his sword and shifted it
slightly to bring it into readiness. His eyes scanned the breadth of the town
drawing slowly closer with each step. He saw not a sign of life, either
human or animal, in the streets or on the road before them. Certainly that
was strange. Ordinarily, the first rays of morning light would find the
narrow little streets busy with citizens going about their daily chores. The
merchants would be opening their stalls in the marketplace and the
craftsmen their awnings. Farmers would be offering cheese and melons
and eggs in exchange for cloth and various metal utensils. Wives would be
carrying water from the well in the town square, and children would be
scampering around corners and darting to and fro in noisy play while the
village dogs barked and dodged their bare, sun-browned legs.
   But this morning there was no such bustle and fuss. The empty streets
seemed haunted by the echoes of childish laughter and the eerie absence of
the villagers.
   The riders entered the main street of the town, and Quentin heard the
soft crush of the horses’ hooves upon the tiny fragments of shells with
which the people of Persch paved their streets. Quentin always thought
that this gave all seaside towns a fresh, clean appearance. This day,
however, the whitened streets looked desolate, sepulchral.
   No face appeared even fleetingly in a doorway or darkened window. No
sound could be heard, except the soft sea breeze blowing among the eaves;
it whispered a note of utter loneliness.
   “Everyone is gone,” observed Toli. His voice seemed to die in the empty
air.
   “I do not believe it. Everyone cannot have left. Someone must have
remained behind. A whole village does not disappear—not without good
cause.”
   They reached the village square. It was an irregular rectangle formed by
the fronts of Persch’s principal buildings: the inn, which was rumored to
serve a most remarkable fish stew; the communal hall (since no nobleman
dwelt in Persch, the citizens had erected their own great hall in which to
observe feasts and holy days); the marketplace and the stalls of the
vendors; the small temple and shrine to the god Ariel; and the dwellings of
the craftsmen.
   In the center of this rectangle stood a large well, and on a mound beside
it an immense old cedar tree spread forth its shaggy limbs to offer shade to
all who gathered there. Quentin and Toli drew up to the well and
dismounted. Toli picked up a shallow wooden bucket which lay beside the
stone rim of the well and dipped out water for the horses. Quentin filled a
gourd and drank his fill of the cold, fresh water and then offered some to
Toli.
   “Hmmm,” Quentin mused, “not a sound, not a sight. And yet, I feel that
we are not alone.”
   “Yes, I feel someone close by. I also feel their fear.” Toli replaced the
gourd carefully and then motioned for Quentin to mount up again. Quentin
did so with a questioning look, and the two rode the rest of the way
through the village.
   When they reached the last dwelling Toli led them aside and whispered,
“We were not entirely alone back there. I felt someone’s eyes upon us. Let
us leave the horses here and go back by another way.”
   They crept quietly along a pinched alleyway between buildings and soon
made their way back to the square. There was nothing to be seen; it all
looked just as it had only moments before.
   “Well, it appears we should look elsewhere. Perhaps we may try one of
the dwellings.”
   “Wait but a moment more and I will join you.”
   Toli had no sooner finished speaking when they heard a slight
scrabbling hiss, like that of a snake moving through dry sand. It stopped
and started with a measured pace. They listened for a moment, and the
sound seemed to diminish rapidly. It was then Quentin realized that
someone had been very close to them, perhaps just around the corner of
the same wattle and daub abode where they now crouched waiting in the
shadows. The sound was the light, shuffling footfall of someone treading
gently, cautiously along the shell-strewn path.
   “He is getting away!” whispered Quentin harshly, and he dived around
the edge of the dwelling in time to see a leg and a hand disappear behind
an overgrown yew thicket.
   “He is making for the basin!” shouted Toli. “We will catch him this
way.” He pulled on Quentin’s arm and pointed behind them to where the
narrow alleyway turned and started down as it became a path, like so
many in the sea town, which led to the waterfront where the villagers kept
their fishing boats.
   Toli bounded away, and Quentin followed in his fleet steps. They
tumbled down the path together and jumped down the rock steps placed in
the side of the sandy hill which separated the town from the strand below.
Ahead of them lay the boat basin, the small cove which formed the harbor
of Persch. There, between two fishing boats resting with thick black hulls
skyward, a small skiff with a white triangular sail had been thrust up on
the sand. And hurrying nimbly along the sand toward the skiff ran the
slight figure of a man.
   Quentin darted out onto the beach in pursuit. He ran a few paces, then
stopped, raised his hand and shouted, “Hold, sir! Stop! We mean you no
harm! We only wish to talk!”
   The figure half-turned and only then saw the two men watching him.
Though Quentin and Toli were still too far away to make out the features
of the face, the effect of Quentin’s words was quite obvious. “You have
frightened him!” called Toli as the figure on the beach lurched forward,
stumbled, fell, picked himself up and ran deerlike for the skiff. “Come
on!” cried the quick-footed Jher skimming over the sand.
   The young stranger had reached the skiff and was shoving the boat into
the water with all his might. It seemed to have caught on something,
thought Quentin, or perhaps the tide had withdrawn somewhat since the
boat had been left there, making it harder to push free.
   But, with the strength of desperation, the stranger succeeded in
launching the small sailboat and was thrashing through knee-deep water to
turn the boat around before clambering in, fishlike, over the side.
   Toli reached the water’s edge first and jumped in. Quentin plunged in
after him, and both waded toward the boat. The stranger, paddling
furiously with a long oar, cast a terrified look over his shoulder. Quentin
noticed the compact frame and slim shoulders dressed in the leather vest
and coarse-woven brown trousers worn by fishermen. The shapeless,
floppy soft hat, also traditional among the seaside dwellers of southern
Mensandor, was pulled down low over the young face.
   Quentin waded toward one side of the boat, and Toli splashed toward
the other. The boat, despite the prodigious thrashings of its occupant with
the oar, was not moving into the deeper water rapidly, and they had no
trouble reaching it in quick strides.
  Once they were within range, the oar whistled above their heads.
Quentin tried to reassure the stranger, saying, “Be still, good sir! Desist!
Ow!” as the wildly flailing oar came dangerously close. “We mean you no
harm!”
  As Quentin thus occupied the boy’s attention, Toli moved behind him
toward the bow. The youngster turned and brought the oar down on the
gunwale with a crack in the exact spot where Toli’s fingers had been only
an instant before. Quentin, seeing the stranger momentarily off-balance
following the delivery of the blow, seized the stern with both hands and
gave the boat a mighty, twisting shove. The young stranger gave a
surprised yelp and, with arms flung wide and fingers clawing the air,
toppled over the side headfirst into the water, the oar clattering to the
bottom of the boat.
  Quentin ducked the splash, and Toli swung himself around the side of
the skiff to face Quentin. Between them floated the fisherman’s hat.
Quentin reached into the shallow water, snagged a hold on the stranger’s
collar and hauled him sputtering to his feet.
  “Well, what have we here?” asked Quentin amiably. “Toli, I think we
have caught ourselves a...” He stopped abruptly. Now it was Quentin’s
turn to be surprised.
  “A girl!” cried Toli, finishing Quentin’s thought.
  Quentin held the dripping hat, now a soggy black bag in his hands, and
looked in wonder at the long, dark tresses, now wet and ropy, glistening in
the sun. The young woman’s dark lashes blinked over clear, ice-blue eyes
as she shook away the water streaming down her face. She had soft, well-
shaped features, and her cheeks bore the ruby blush of excitement.
  “Let me go!” she cried. “I am nobody. I have no money. Let me go!”
  “Peace,” said Quentin softly. “We will do you no harm, my lady.”
  The young woman looked from one to the other of her captors, eyeing
them suspiciously. “We are not robbers, if that is what you are thinking,”
replied Toli. “We are King’s men.”
  “Since when do King’s men arrest innocent citizens and abuse them for
no reason?” she challenged them haughtily.
  “Innocent citizens have nothing to fear from us. Why did you run?”
  The woman threw a furtive glance toward the village and murmured, “I
was frightened. I found the village deserted, and...”
  “And then you heard us coming and hid.”
  “Yes,” she said sullenly. She drew a soggy sleeve across her face and
threw a defiant look at Quentin. “Now, let me go!”
  “We will let you go in good time. But you have pricked our curiosity,
and we wish answers to our questions first. Now,” said Quentin offering
her his hand, “we needn’t remain standing in the water; let us all dry out
on the beach.”
  He turned and began sloshing toward the shore. Suddenly he felt his
knees buckle, and he pitched forward into the water with a strangled yelp.
His back and shoulders were pummeled with fierce blows. He twisted
underwater and was trying to haul himself back to his feet when the attack
was broken off. He surfaced sputtering and shook the water out of his
eyes. Toli was gripping the young lady by the arms, having pulled her off
Quentin. His servant then pushed her, clawing and kicking, toward the
shore.
  Toli’s face wore a strange, ridiculous grin.



                                TEN
  “HOW IS THIS possible?” Theido shook his head in disbelief. His eyes
scanned the blackened plain where the village of Halidom had been.
  “There must be something left, though it does not look promising.”
Ronsard motioned to his knights, and the party started down the gentle hill
above the flat valley of Halidom. Each man’s face wore a look of grim
wonder, and each man’s mind echoed Theido’s thought—how was it
possible that an entire village could be annihilated so completely?
  There was nothing left of Halidom but a blackened spot on the earth.
Not a timber stood; not a stone was left standing upon another. The entire
area where the town had been was now a razed jumble of destruction.
  “Even the birds have finished with it,” observed Ronsard as they
approached the perimeter of the scorched circle.
  “Not quite. Look over there.” Theido gazed a short distance away.
Ronsard followed his look and saw a large flapping buzzard settle himself
upon the remnant of a tree trunk. Three scolding ravens flew up from
where they had been busily feeding on the ground.
   “Let us see what draws their interest.” Ronsard turned to his men.
“Spread out and search the ashes for any signs of who this enemy might
be.” Then he and Theido reined their horses toward the place where the
buzzard was now hopping along the length of burned trunk. The bird was
eyeing something on the ground below. What it was could not be
determined.
   They moved through the midst of the destroyed village. Scattered among
the ashes were the charred remains of the everyday life of the simple
villagers: an iron tripod with its battered pot nearby, a small stone statue of
a household god, the blackened shards of a wine jug. And here and there
lay the remains of hapless villagers: a sooty skull staring vacantly
skyward; a long, clean length of shinbone; the curved hull of a ribcage
rising from the desolation.
   The vulture took disgruntled flight at the approach of the horses and
lifted itself slowly into the sky to circle high overhead with the ravens.
   “By the gods!” cried Theido, drawing near the spot.
   “What... ?” began Ronsard. Then he, too, saw what Theido had seen.
“By Orphe—no!”
   Theido had already thrown himself from his mount and was tugging at
the lashings of his saddle for his water skin. Ronsard, entranced by the
sight before him, dismounted slowly and stepped closer. He placed a hand
on the hilt of his sword and was drawing the blade when Theido touched
his arm. “No need for that, I think. He is beyond pain, beyond suffering.”
   As Theido spoke, the object of their attention—a badly burned torso of a
body—jerked convulsively, and a yellow eye rolled toward them. Upon
seeing them, the mangled half-corpse uttered a pitiful moan. Theido knelt
gently down beside the carcass and offered his water skin.
   “Peace, friend. Here is water for your parched tongue.” Theido was on
his knees, gently bringing the tip of the skin within reach of the cracked
mouth. He allowed a few drops of water to seep out and dampen the man’s
lips. The black tongue poked out and moistened itself with the water. The
cracked eyelids fluttered, and the dry eyeballs rolled in their sockets.
Miraculously, the water seemed to take effect and the eyes cleared with
recognition.
  “How is this poor creature still alive?” wondered Ronsard, bending close
to Theido’s ear.
  “I do not know.” The knight paused to let some more water trickle out.
“But perhaps he may tell us something of what happened here before
Heoth claims him.”
  “Can you speak, friend? We are King’s men, and your answers would
do your King service.”
  Ronsard turned away from the stench which assailed his nostrils. The
man was burned horribly. Great areas of his chest and arms were charred
black; the lower part of his body had been crushed by the tree when it fell.
He lay in a shallow depression in the ground, half-twisted on his side. His
hair had been burned off one side of his head; on the other, a few dark
strands still dung to the bare scalp to trail in the breeze.
  The birds had fed on the man where he lay and had laid open a fair
portion of his shoulder and back. White bone could be seen gleaming from
the raw, red wounds.
  “Let him die in peace,” said Ronsard turning back. His voice was tight
and choked.
  “No-o-o.” The sound was little more than a whisper on the wind. Both
men looked down into the eyes and saw a glimmer which held them. The
man was trying to speak.
  “Easy. We hear you. Let me come close to listen.” Theido leaned
forward and placed his ear directly above the man’s lips. He spoke softly
and with a serenity Ronsard found hard to believe. “Tell us what
happened, if you can.”
  The words formed themselves in the air, though Ronsard could not see
how; and, however faint, they could be understood. “I have been waiting
for someone to come,” the man whispered. His voice was a dry rasp—the
sound of a withered leaf blown over the sand. “Waiting... waiting...”
  “We are here now; your vigil is over. Can you tell us anything?”
  “All killed... all destroyed... burned... everything.”
  “Yes, we see. Who did it? Do you know?”
  “Ahh...”—a long raking gasp—” the destroyer god... ten feet tall... fire
spewed from his mouth... everything destroyed.”
  “Just the god alone?”
  The words were growing fainter and more tenuous. “N-no... ahh... many
soldiers... they say...” The man coughed violently, and the torso was
racked by another convulsion.
  “What did they say?”
  “Ahh...”
  “Tell me and then it is over. The god will take you to your rest.”
  “Beware... Nin the Destroyer... Ahh-hhh.”
  The yellowed eyes grew cloudy and still. There was not enough breath
left to make a last gasp, but Ronsard fancied he felt the last remnant of life
flee the broken form that had held it so long against its will.
  Theido stood slowly. “Let us bury this brave one at once.”
  The birds squawked overhead as if they knew that they would be denied
their meal.
  When the pathetic corpse had been buried with as much kindness as the
knights could render, Ronsard and Theido went a little apart to talk. “Have
you seen enough, my friend?” asked Ronsard, leaning on his sword.
  “Here—yes. But I would like a look at this enemy that strikes helpless
villages and kills the defenseless.”
  “That we shall have ere long, I believe. But now is not the time for it.
We should return at once with word of what we have seen. When next we
ride, it will be with a thousand at our backs.”
  “Aye, you speak my feelings... hmmm.” Theido paused and seemed to
regard something on the far horizon.
  “What is it, Theido? Does something trouble you yet?”
  Theido drew a long breath, and when he turned back to Ronsard a
strange light shone in his eyes. He turned again to the horizon, and his
voice sounded faraway. A shadow moved across the valley.
  “I am afraid, Ronsard.”
  “You, afraid? How little you know yourself, sir!”
  “Don’t you feel it?” His look was quick and sharp. “No? I wonder...”
  “Speak your mind, Theido. Let there be nothing between us now. You
have a foreboding, I can tell. Out with it. Do not fear you will unsettle me
unduly. I am man enough to ride my thoughts with a tight rein, I assure
you.”
  “Very well—you are right, of course. But it is not so easily put into
words.
  “Just now as we were talking I had a feeling that we were riding down a
narrow path whose end lay in darkness, and darkness was falling all
around. That is all, just that. But it made me afraid.”
  Ronsard studied his friend carefully, and at last spoke in a firm but quiet
voice. “We were together, you and I? Well, come what may, that is
enough for me. It will be a dark path indeed that daunts these two knights.
  “But come, this is an evil place. Let us return at once to Askelon for the
King’s counsel. I fear we have been too long absent already.”
  “We shall return as you say, fair friend.” Theido squared his shoulders
and clapped Ronsard on the back with his hand. “But I would that we had
seen this mysterious enemy and knew somewhat of his strength in
numbers. I would feel better if we could but see his face.”
  “So should I, but perhaps that time is not far hence. We may yet
encounter him before reaching Askelon—though we are ill prepared for
battle.”
  “I have no wish to engage an unknown enemy, brave sir. Only to espy
his methods. All the more since this one seems so fantastic to believe.”
  They had been walking back to their horses and upon reaching them
Ronsard swung himself up and called to his knights, “Be mounted, men!
We are away for Askelon!”
  The knights took their saddles and began riding back up the hill the way
they had come. But this time they gave the charred circle on the plain a
wide berth.
  Theido stood for a moment beside his horse, gazing faraway. Behind
him he heard Ronsard call; he shrugged, mounted his big black palfrey
and hurried to catch the others. As he gained the crest of the hill, the late
afternoon sun caught him full in the face and he felt his melancholy flow
away in the flood of golden warmth that washed over him. He spurred his
horse forward and did not look back.



                            ELEVEN
   DURWIN HIKED his robe over his knees and waded into the reed-
fringed pool. The afternoon sun fell in slanting shafts through broad oaks
and silver-leaved birch to glint in shimmering bands upon the clear water.
Tiny fish flashed away from Durwin’s intruding feet. The liquid,
crystalline call of a lark on a nearby branch split the forest’s green silence
into two quivering halves.
  Durwin stepped carefully into deeper water, scanning the pebble-strewn
bottom as he splashed along. He thought for a moment to throw off his
robe and submerge himself in the pool’s cool depths, as was his custom on
a warm summer’s afternoon in Pelgrin Forest.
  But he thought better of the notion, inviting though it was, and
continued his browsing. He soon had reason to be glad he had kept his
robe, for as he worked his way around the pool, dipping now and then into
the water, he noticed something white shining in the water. He glanced
again and realized that it was a reflection on the mirrored surface of the
pool. With a start he looked up and saw a woman clothed all in white
standing on the shaggy, grass-covered bank above him.
  “My Lady!” he exclaimed, “you gave me a jump! I did not know that I
was being watched.”
  “I am sorry, Durwin. I did not mean to alarm you,” laughed Alinea, her
voice ringing in the hollow. It had been a long time since he had heard her
laugh. “You appeared so deeply engrossed I feared to disturb your
thought. Forgive me.”
  “Your consideration is most thoughtful, but unnecessary. I am only
gathering some biddleweed for a tisane.”
  “Water hemlock? That is a deadly poison, is it not?”
  “You know the plants of the field and forest?”
  “Only a few. My mother, Queen Ellena, knew many remedies and made
our medicines for us. As a child I helped her gather the herbs.”
  “Well, then you know that a plant is neither deadly nor dangerous, but
the intent of the healer makes it so. Yes, some are very powerful. But in
wise hands even the most poisonous may make a wonderfully potent
cure.”
  “Your hands are surely the wisest in the realm, kind hermit. Your
medicines are most efficacious.”
  “Oh, my Lady! You do not know how sorry your words make me.”
  “Have I said something wrong? Please tell me.” The Queen drew a few
steps closer to the edge of the bank. Durwin waded toward her.
  “No, you intended nothing wrong. But your words mock my lack of
skill. For the one patient I would above all heal with my humble craft lies
abed—no better now that when I first began his treatment. His malady
resists my utmost art.”
  “Surely it is a most subtle cachexy.”
  “So it is!”
  Durwin peered into Alinea’s deep green eyes and read the heavy burden
of care which grew there; every day added to the weight. He felt powerless
to help her, as he felt powerless when he stood over the birth of a peasant
baby born too soon and dying before it had begun to live. He would have
taken the burden upon himself though it was a thousand times greater. But
there was nothing he could do, save stand aside, humbled by his own
uselessness.
  “Do you think the Most High God hears our prayers for the sick?”
  “He must, my Lady. He hears all prayers and answers each in its own
season.”
  “Then prayer will do what potions cannot.”
  “You shame me with your faith. In my search through all my medicines
I have sorely neglected that remedy. But no more.”
  The Queen sighed and raised her eyes to a sky shining soft and blue and
bright in the afternoon light. Clouds fair and faraway drifted slowly on the
breeze which rustled the trees gently from time to time. The little pond
was a polished glass reflecting all that passed above. Alinea plucked a tiny
purple flower from a cluster at her feet. She gazed into it as if seeking a
sign from its maker.
  Durwin continued wading, stooping now and then to snatch up a plant
by its roots. When he had collected enough, he strode through the water
and climbed the bank where Alinea had settled to wait in the shade.
  “What is happening, Durwin?” Her question was softly spoken, but the
uncertainty in her voice and the worry lurking behind her eyes gave it the
impact of a shout Before he could speak a reassuring word she continued,
“It seems to me that something very bad, some dark evil, is growing,
drawing nearer. Sometimes I stop for no reason and a cold fear passes over
me. It is gone again as quickly as it came, but afterwards it lingers in the
air like a chill, and nothing is the same.”
  “I, too, have felt it. But I am at a loss to explain it. Something, I believe,
is moving in the land—something evil, yes. It is unknown now, but will
not so remain. Too soon we will know what it is.”
   “To hear you speak so does cheer me, though your words are not happy
ones. At least I know that a dear friend feels as I do and understands.”
   “I would reassure you if I could.”
   “You have done your service well. I came here hoping to find you and to
rest a little. I have seen naught of the hills and woods of late, and the
summer is waxing full.”
   “It is peaceful here. When I come here I can almost imagine that I am in
the heart of Pelgrin itself, it is so quiet. I take heart that even in a storm-
blown sea of troubles, there are still islands of serenity to be found.
Nothing can touch them, and nothing will.”
   The Queen moved to rise, and Durwin offered his hand. “Stay a while
longer if you wish, my Lady. I must go and begin with these.” He shook
sparkling drops from the biddleweed.
   “No, we will return together. I must look in on the King once again.”
   They moved to their horses and the ride back to Askelon Castle in the
quiet warmth of each other’s company.
   “Where do you come from, changeling?” Quentin asked, squeezing the
water from his jerkin. “And what is your name?”
   “I’ll not tell you until I know who it is that asks.” The young woman’s
eyes flashed defiantly.
   “All right, a name for a name. I am Quentin and this is my friend and
servant, Toli.” As he said their names, Quentin thought he saw a flicker of
recognition cross the girl’s comely features. “Do those names mean
anything to you?”
   “No. Should they?” she shot back.
   “There are some who would have heard them spoken before, that is all.”
   “I suppose there are some who have heard of most anyone as loud and
quarrelsome as you two are.”
   Quentin rankled at the girl’s sharp tongue. “You have not told us your
name though we have given ours,” he said crossly.
   “I give my name to whom I choose. And I choose to be known only by
my friends.” She shook her limp, wet hair and turned her face away.
   “If you knew who it was that spoke to you—” Quentin began hotly. His
temper was rising at the haughty spirit of this obstinate young woman.
   “If you knew who it was you mistreated...” She turned on Quentin again
and, quick as a cat, leapt at him with claws extended.
   Toli caught her by the arms once more, saying, “Peace! What my master
is trying to tell you, my lady, is that we are sworn to protect all subjects of
the realm. We are at your service.” He spoke softly and released her when
she grew quieter.
   “Well, you need have no care for me,” she returned in a more subdued
tone. “I am not one of your King’s subjects.”
   “Not of Mensandor? Ah, now we are getting somewhere,” Quentin
remarked sourly.
   The girl looked at each of them from beneath dark lashes, as if sizing
them up. “Very well, I will trust you—but only because your servant has a
mannered tongue.” She glanced darkly at Quentin. “I am Esme. My home
is in Elsendor.”
   “Then you are very far from home. What brings you to Mensandor and
to this modest village yonder?”
   “The village was not my destination, I assure you, sir. But my tale is not
for your ears, worry me though you will.”
   “And who might best hear your tale if not King’s men?” Quentin asked.
   “The King himself!” She folded her arms over her chest and glared at
them both.
   “Then allow me to offer you the King’s protection until you shall obtain
audience with him,” said Toli, bowing low. Esme smiled triumphantly and
nodded. Quentin looked heavenward, as if seeking patience.
   “I accept your protection; it seems a woman needs it in this rough land.”
She straightened her clothes and looked at them both squarely. “Then take
me at once to the King, I charge you.”
   “Toli is right to offer you the King’s protection, and we will ride to the
King—but not yet. We have a charge placed upon us by the King himself
and cannot return until it is accomplished.”
   The young lady frowned and seemed about to lash out angrily once
more, but again Toli interceded. “My master speaks the truth; were it not
for the urgency of our errand we would gladly conduct you directly to the
castle itself. We return there ourselves as soon as may be.”
   “Then I will go myself. With or without your protection, my mission
must not wait.”
  “How will you go? In your boat? That would take far longer than you
might think. The current of the Herwydd is strong; going against it is not
easily done, and Askelon is far. Or perhaps you would walk all the way?”
  “My master is suggesting prudence, my lady. Our errand is perhaps of
an end not many days hence. We have good horses and can reach Askelon
swiftly at need. Come with us...”—he hesitated—“for your protection and
so you may reach the King the sooner.”
  The fiery young lady stared from one to the other of them before she
made up her mind. “Very well, I will go with you. There seems no better
choice.” With that she turned and began walking back toward the
abandoned village of Persch.
  Toli and Quentin followed behind, and upon reaching the village square
Esme turned to them and announced, “I will attend directly.” She then
disappeared into one of the dwellings.
  “I will wait here for our proud companion,” announced Quentin. “Fetch
the horses, and we’ll away as soon as she returns.”
  Toli brought the horses and set himself to redistributing small items of
their traveling effects.
  “What are you doing?” asked Quentin, looking on.
  “I assumed that you would not care to have the lady share your mount,
so I am making ready mine.”
  “I will take the responsibility; it is my place.”
  “How so? I am your servant; it is my place. And it was my tongue which
placed this burden upon your back. Therefore, I will help bear it.”
  “If it pleases you, Toli, you shall carry her in your arms all the way.
Have it as you will.”
  “I am ready,” called a voice behind them. They turned to see a very
different young woman than the one they had fished from the sea. She had
gathered back her hair and bound it in a leather thong. She wore riding
trousers, but of a finer cut and fit than a man’s, and embroidered with
intricate designs along the seams. She wore a short cloak thrown over one
shoulder; it, too, was carefully embroidered and matched her trousers. The
cloak was of deep blue, as was the soft short tunic under it. A thin belt of
new leather held a long dagger at her waist. Soft leather boots covered her
feet and reached almost to her knees.
  A more remarkable transformation could hardly have been anticipated.
Toli and Quentin blinked in wonder. Esme looked like a warrior princess,
but such things were unheard of in Mensandor.
  “Which horse will I have?” she demanded.
  “Toli has agreed to share his with you.”
  Without another word they climbed into their saddles. Toli reached a
hand down and drew the lady up to sit behind him on Riv’s broad back.
They soon left the silent village behind.
  As the declining sun lengthened their shadows upon the green hills, they
stopped for the night in a stand of thin aspens near a trickling brook.
Quentin and Toli routinely began making camp, while Esme planted
herself on a grassy knob and drew her knees up to wait. Only when Toli
had meat on the spit and broth bubbling in the shallow pot did she
approach.
  “We will eat better tomorrow, perhaps,” muttered Quentin. “We did not
have opportunity to gather provisions as we would have liked.” He
inclined his head in the direction of Persch.
  ‘It appears a banquet to me,” said Esme, her eyes glowing as she
watched Toli turn the spits. “I have not eaten in two days.”
  The confession shamed Quentin, who colored deeply. “I... I must
apologize for my behavior back there, my lady. It was not meet of me to
judge you so.”
  “And I have misjudged you,” she admitted. “But perhaps you will grant
me my error. A woman must sometimes discourage untoward advances by
strange men. I thought you would take advantage of me.”
  “I would pity the man who tried.”
  “No harm will come to you while you remain with us, my lady,” said
Toli earnestly.
  “I thank you, good sir.” When their eyes met, Toli looked away quickly
and finished preparing the meal.
  When it was ready they sat down together. Toli handed a plate of meat
around and filled their bowls with broth. He broke some crusts of hard
bread which they each dipped into the broth to soften it for chewing. Esme
ate with a most unladylike appetite which Quentin and Toli made certain
not to notice.
  “You are most kind not to scold my ill manners. The food does so warm
an empty stomach.”
   “How could we scold what we ourselves indulge?” asked Quentin.
“Have more; you are welcome.”
   “I have eaten quite enough, thank you. Toli, your way with simple fare
is praiseworthy. I would care to see what you could do with more exotic
victuals.”
   Toli said nothing, but merely smiled mysteriously. “Would you now tell
us what you were doing in the village alone?” Quentin asked after some
time.
   Esme looked into her bowl of broth as if the answer might be read there.
She cocked her head to one side and said, “That I was alone was no fault
of my own. I went there, as you would surmise, to obtain the clothes you
first saw me wearing. I found the village empty as you did; so I helped
myself to the garments.”
   “You wished to disguise yourself—why?”
   “I have already told you—a woman cannot be too careful traveling
alone. It was a poor disguise, I know. But I thought it might serve until I
could discover another or until”—she smiled broadly—“disguises were no
longer necessary.”
   “Do you know so little of Mensandor, then, that you think every man a
rogue?”
   “It is not Mensandor’s subjects that I fear, though I did not propose to
put them to the test. But tell me of your errand. Something tells me that we
may be of closer purpose than seems first apparent.”
   “We go to seek comrades long overdue,” offered Toli. “They were sent
to—”
   “To derive the truth from certain rumors now growing in the land,” said
Quentin tactfully.
   Esme’s brow became suddenly troubled. “They rode to the south, your
friends?”
   “Yes; south along the coast. Why?”
   “Good sirs, I greatly fear for your friends.” Her voice quavered on a note
of sharp concern. “I do not wonder that they are long overdue—or that
they may not return at all.”
   Quentin leaned forward in keen attention. Toli laid aside the utensils and
watched Esme carefully. “What do you know about this?” asked Quentin
calmly enough, but there was no mistaking his anxiety.
  “Only this”—Esme saw the effect her words had had on them and chose
her way carefully. “It was between Dorn and Persch that I lost my
companions two days ago.”



                          TWELVE
   “THERE YOU are,” said Quentin softly as he moved quietly up to stand
at Toli’s shoulder. “I should have known you would be stargazing.”
   “I could not sleep, Kenta. The star is growing.” The light of the late-
night sky gleamed in the Jher’s upturned face.
   “It looks the same to me,” Quentin said without conviction. “It will be
dawn soon; perhaps we should make ready to leave. Our new companion’s
words have troubled me; it would ease my mind to be on our way. I would
not like to think that Theido and Ronsard were trapped because we didn’t
warn them and prevent it.”
   “Yes, the star grows each night, and evil increases,” replied Toli. He
turned and looked at Quentin, his large dark eyes filled with a light
Quentin had rarely seen. “I will make ready the horses and wake the lady.
I fear the day is already far spent.”
   He slipped away noiselessly to leave Quentin pondering his words and
peering up at the star glowing brightly in the east. Quentin heard a soft
tread behind him, light as a shadow, and Esme came to stand beside him.
   “So you know about the star too,” she said.
   “We have been watching it, yes—though what it betokens is not
certain.”
   “There is no need to spare me your worst suspicions. Our priests are
well-acquainted with heavenly signs and the reading of portents. I know
what they say about the Preying Star. But I am not afraid.”
   “Then you are braver than I, my lady. For I must admit that I sometimes
feel very much afraid when I look upon it.”
   Toli brought the horses, and the three mounted up. They left the shelter
of the aspen grove, slipped out into the waning night and moved across the
starlit hills. Behind them rose the cragged wall of the Fiskills and the
narrow trail beside the sea. They had come through that pinched corridor
late in the afternoon and had pushed on into the sloping foothills on the
other side to find their camp for the night.
   Although extremely curious about his new charge, Quentin had not
pressed her for details of her story. She did not seem inclined to talk about
the loss of her companions, nor about the mission which took her to King
Eskevar. But her fearful thoughts on the safety of Theido and Ronsard had
unsettled him, for he had been feeling a vague uneasiness regarding them
himself. She had put words to his doubt and had made it real and urgent.
   “They must have gone south toward Halidom,” Quentin had reasoned as
they sat around the campfire after their supper. “Otherwise, Esme and her
party would have met them on the road between Dora and Persch.”
   “But why would they go so far?” Toli had asked. Quentin had shrugged.
“I will ask them that when next we meet. Perhaps they saw something
which took them there. These empty villages are mystery enough for me.”
   They had lapsed into silence and uneasy rest. Quentin’s restive mind
gnawed at his unanswered questions like a hound with a twice-picked
shank. He felt better now that they were moving again.
   He listened to the cadence of their passing in the deepest part of the
night. Soon the horizon would begin to lighten in the east as the sun rolled
back the darkness for another day. But now they rode as night’s children
slipping unseen through the sleeping world.
   Quentin struck once more along the coastal road, a wide, rock-strewn
path which linked the seaside villages. If Ronsard and his knights were to
be found it would likely be along this road, although there were other,
more infrequently traveled routes to the north through the brown
Wilderlands. These were tracks which the traders used to traverse the vast
and empty Suthlands and bring them to the more populated regions of the
north.
   The empty villages—first Persch, then Yallo and Biskan—had greatly
troubled him; though he sought time and again for a logical explanation,
none was forthcoming. He wondered if Theido and Ronsard had
discovered them as well. They must have if they had passed through, or
the towns may have been abandoned after the knights had ridden on.
There was no telling how long ago they had traveled the road, where they
might have stayed, or who they might have seen.
   Quentin hoped, though reason told him six armed knights were a match
for anything, that they had not encountered whatever it was that had
overtaken Esme’s party.
   They rode for an hour or more, following the rising and falling trail as it
climbed and descended the gently undulating hills along the coast. At each
crest they could see the great sea, lying dark and still in the distance.
Gerfallon was not troubled by the mere vexations of mortal men; he slept
in his deep bed, and his creatures with him.
   Quentin stopped at the crest of the next hill and waited until Toli, with
Esme sitting behind, hands on knees, had drawn up beside him. Blazer
jigged sideways, impatient with the delay.
   “What do you think that could be?” asked Quentin, nodding in the
direction of the dark northern hills. A fault leaden smudge could be barely
seen glowing in the sky faraway. “If I did not know better, I would say
that the sun was coming up in the north today. A false sun that would be.”
   “I have seen such false sunrises, and you may suspect some misfortune
is at hand.”
   “What is it?” asked Esme.
   “Fire,” said Toli.
   “Are you certain? It does not look like a fire to me,” said Quentin,
leaning forward in his saddle for a better look. “Why, it would take a pile
of wood the size of a—”
   “Village.” Toli supplied the missing word.
   “You do not think...” cried Quentin with growing alarm. “Illem lies in
that direction!”
   “Yes, a league to the north, I would say.”
   “Then we waste time talking,” said Quentin as he turned his horse
toward the glow in the sky. “We may be of some help. Let us go!”
   “Hold tight, my lady,” said Toli as he snapped the reins. Riv leaped
from the track and bounded after Quentin’s gliding shape.
   As the horses galloped at full speed, the glow on the horizon brightened
and spread. At half a league it covered the far hills and deepened with an
ugly reddish hue. The hanging gloom of smoke could be discerned against
the darker curtain of night.
   In the east the sky had grown pearly with the coming of the dawn,
making the glow ahead seem even more ominous and unnatural.
   Quentin reined to a halt at the bottom of a deep ravine. In the spring the
thaw from the Fiskills filled the dry bed with icy water. Now it was filled
with weeds and brush, the waters having long since emptied into the sea.
   “I think Illem lies just beyond the ridge,” said Quentin. The ravine
carved its way through a long trough of a valley bounded on three sides by
low ridges. From the bottom of the dry stream bed the sky to the north
shone as rust and the smoke rolled away on the landward wind.
   “Something is wrong,” said Toli. “We should proceed with caution until
we can find out where the enemy lies.”
   “I agree,” said Esme. “We are only three against who knows how
many.”
   Quentin looked at her with surprise. She evidently counted herself as
one of the protectors rather than the one protected. “Why must there be
any enemy? Surely you don’t think...” Quentin stopped; he knew Toli’s
uncanny instinct well enough to know that even his slightest whims should
be taken seriously. He had seen them proven true too often to dismiss
them lightly. “Very well, we will continue along the valley until we draw
even with town. Then we can climb out below it in the shelter of the
ridge.”
   They started off again, but at a more measured gait. Quentin led the
way, scanning the tops of the hills for any signs of unusual activity. They
had proceeded only a little way when the course wound around a sharp
bend. “Wait!” shouted Toli in a sharp whisper. “Listen!”
   Just around the bend could be heard an odd muffled sound, as if a large
animal were rooting in the soft soil of the dry stream bed. It shuffled
along, breathing heavily, with an airy, bristling sigh. Blazer and Riv both
lifted their ears at the sound.
   “What can it be?” wondered Esme, her whisper almost lost in the
quickly growing intensity of the sound.
   “Whatever it is, it is coming this way,” said Quentin. “Over here!” He
spurred Blazer toward the near bank to escape the path of the oncoming
beast.
   But he was too late. As Blazer jumped forward, the thing came churning
around the bend. Quentin had a glimpse of a vast, rippling body—
shapeless and ill-defined. The creature saw him too, and let out a whelp
which seemed to come from a dozen throats at once. It was then that
Quentin knew what it was.
  “Hold!” shouted Quentin, laying the reins hard to his mount’s side, so
that Blazer reared on his hind legs and wheeled about. His command
echoed from the far bank. Toli was instantly at his side.
  The beast screamed and broke into a hundred separate pieces, each one
darting in a different direction. The strange beast was, in fact, the
townspeople of Illem fleeing their burning homes en masse. The sound
had been that of many feet hurrying through the dry brush and the murmur
of fear as they fled.
  “Hold!” Quentin called again. “In the name of the Dragon King!”
  The people stopped. The sight of the instantly appearing horse and rider
rooted them to the spot. For a moment no one dared to move. Quentin
judged them to be as many as fifty in all—men, women and children.
  One brave man stepped forward. “Do not hinder us, sir. Whoever you
be, if you be friend let us go!” The man approached Quentin slowly. The
others behind him were too frightened to move or speak.
  “We will do you no harm; have no fear,” said Quentin.
  The man looked over his shoulder and cried, “The Destroyer is upon us!
We have only escaped with our lives—let us go! Even now he comes for
us!”
  “Who is this Destroyer? We will meet him and—”
  “No, it is too late!” He made a quick motion to his followers and as they
started to move on, the man suddenly threw his hand in the air. “Ahh!
They have found us!”
  Quentin looked behind them and saw something moving by torchlight
down the sides of the ravine. He drew his sword from its place behind his
saddle and heard the ring of Toli’s blade at the same time.
  “Run for it!” Quentin cried to the townspeople. “We will protect your
escape.”
  Toli charged ahead, and Quentin saw more torches boiling down the
side of the ravine. Quentin leaned forward on Blazer’s neck, darted toward
the embankment and drove straight to the nearest of them. He heard Toli’s
blade sing in the air and the crash of metal followed by a stifled cry. With
his own sword held high, he leaped across the flat bed of the stream and
caught a confused group of mail-clad soldiers as they tumbled down the
bank. Two of them felt the bite of his blade, and two others fled back up
the bank.
  Turning, Quentin found his way barred from behind. Blazer reared and
lashed out with frying hooves. Quentin’s sword became a flashing shield
before him as he fought to Toli’s side. Twice a lance head thrust out of the
darkness, and each time the sword sliced through the shaft. Now a buckler
was cleaved in two, and then a helm.
  It was clear that the soldiers had not anticipated finding men on
horseback. They were uncertain what to do and ran into each other in an
effort to stay out of range of Toli’s well-trained steeds. This led Quentin to
believe that, though greatly outnumbered, they would prevail.
  But once over the initial surprise, the soldiers quickly regrouped and
surrounded the riders. “We are cut off!” cried Quentin as he raced by Toli.
“We must break through the line. Where it the weakest point?”
  “There—see that gap?” Esme called. Quentin saw her point past him
with her dagger.
  He looked and saw a space between two soldiers who were hurrying
toward them. “Good eye, girl! Follow me!” He threw the reins ahead, and
Blazer sprang for the spot. Closer, he saw that a wall of low bushes stood
in the gap. Before he had time to think, Blazer was up and over it.
  Toli was not so lucky. Riv, with the weight of an extra rider, charged up
and cleared the shrubs with his forelegs, but his hind legs became tangled
in the branches. Quentin saw all three go down as soldiers instantly
converged on the spot.
  Blazer thundered to a churning stop, and Quentin pulled him around and
headed back into the fray. “Whist Orren, protect your servant!” he cried in
desperation.
  In the scant few moments of battle, the sky had lightened enough to see
the soldiers distinct from the darker background. Quentin sounded a battle
cry and prepared for the shock of the inevitable collision. He saw Riv
thrashing his head as the horse regained his feet. Toli and Esme were lost
beneath a dozen black shapes of soldiers swarming over them.
  Quentin bore down and slashed out at the jumble of lances and swords.
He heard the gasps of pain and felt the sword strike deep. He thrust and
thrust again and the roiling mass of bodies parted.
  Then he felt something tugging at his cloak, yanking him backwards.
Hands reached out and grabbed his arms; his sword was struck from his
hand. Blazer reared and jumped, but the grip on Quentin’s arms held firm
and he was hauled from his saddle.
  As he tumbled to the ground he saw Esme leap up out of nowhere and
then past him. For one heartbeat their eyes met. In that same instant
Quentin thought she would come to his aid. But she turned away and was
instantly in Toli’s saddle. Then Quentin was on the ground and a foot
smashed into his throat.
  As the world spun sickeningly before his eyes, he heard the sound of
Riv’s hooves pounding away.



                        THIRTEEN
  HEAVY DRAPERIES were hung across the windows of the Dragon
King’s chamber. The barest thread of light shone through a chink in the
gathered cloth to fall in a single shaft upon the King’s high bed.
Otherwise, the room was as dark as a cave deep under a hill.
  Durwin entered quietly and stood for a moment by the door. He pressed
a finger to his chin and then moved closer, listening to the irregular and
shallow breathing of the still form on the bed. He stepped near the stricken
King and stooped to peer into the sleeping man’s face. It was then that he
detected the faint, putrid odor of death.
  The holy hermit spun around and lay the wooden goblet he carried on a
nearby table. He went to the high narrow window and seized the draperies
in both hands and pulled with all his might. There was a tearing sound and
a crash as the stifling folds came tumbling down beneath an avalanche of
dazzling morning light now streaming into the gloomy chamber.
  Fresh air swept fair and warm into the night-chilled room and banished
the foul stench. The man on the bed, pale and wizened amidst his mounds
of thick coverings, stirred feebly. A breathless moan passed his lips.
  “My King, awaken!” shouted Durwin, bending close. “Do you hear me?
Awaken, I say, and throw off the sleep of death!”
  Durwin snatched up the goblet and, slipping his arm beneath Eskevar’s
head, brought it close to the invalid’s lips. He poured and the yellow liquid
ran down the King’s chin and neck, staining his bedclothes.
  But some of the medicine seeped into his patient’s mouth. The King
gasped weakly and the hermit poured again, emptying the goblet. In a
moment the gray eyelids flickered and raised, revealing two dark eyes,
filmy with stupor.
   “Awake, Eskevar. Your time is not yet.” The eyes stared unmoving in
their milky gaze. “Oh, have I come too late?” Durwin muttered to himself.
   “What is it? Durwin? What has hap—” The Queen appeared in the open
doorway. She took two steps into the room, then saw her husband staring
upward, motionless, “Oh!” she cried, rushing to the bed.
   “He is with us still, my Lady. But for how long I cannot say.” As he
spoke, Alinea clutched his arm for support, then threw herself upon the
bed, burying her face deep in the bedclothes. In a moment her sobs could
be heard, muffled and indistinct.
   Durwin stood aside regarding the Queen and her dying King. His own
heart swelled with pity and grief. “God Most High,” he prayed, “you give
men life and receive it back from them when their span is done. All things
grow in their season as established by your command. Surely it is to you a
hateful thing when life is cut short.
   “An evil malady afflicts our King and crushes him in a deadly embrace.
Release him from it. Turn his steps back from their downward path, and
restore him once more to his loved ones and to his realm.”
   Durwin’s quiet prayer lingered in the air like a healing balm. The breeze
blew softly, carrying the scent of roses from the gardens outside. It
whispered softly in the stillness of the room. Then all was silent.
   “Durwin—look!” Alinea exclaimed. In her hands she clasped one of
Eskevar’s as she knelt at his side. The King was now gazing quietly at
both of them; his eyes were moist with tears.
   “Oswald!” Durwin called. The Queen’s chamberlain, hovering near the
door, stepped fearfully into the room. “Fetch me the flagon upon my
worktable!” The worried servant disappeared at once and was back before
Durwin could add, “And hurry!”
   The hermit once more administered the liquid, pulling the seal from the
stoppered bottle and pouring it down the King’s throat.
   This time Eskevar coughed deeply, closed his eyes as if in pain and said,
in a voice barely audible, “Have I fallen so low as to be poisoned in my
own bed?”
   “The King complains—that is certainly a good sign.” The Queen turned
an anxious visage toward the hermit. “My Lady, he is safe for the moment,
but not out of danger yet.”
  Durwin moved about the bed and began throwing off the coverings of
wool and fur. “I have been foolish and slow-witted, however. Perhaps the
King would not have sunk so far, almost beyond return, if I had been more
observant. Come, my Lady, we must get him up.”
  Alinea looked doubtful. “Do you think...”
  “At once. He must save the strength he still possesses. He must use it to
gain more. Help me to get him on his feet.”
  They took the unresisting body of the King, now light as feather down,
between them and raised it carefully. Supporting him by the arms, they
pulled him from the bed gently and placed his bare feet upon the floor.
“Ahhh!” Eskevar cried out in pain. The Queen threw a worried glance at
Durwin, who only nodded as if to say, “Continue; it must be done.”
  Carefully they walked him step by halting step back and forth across the
room, stopping to stand before the window each time to allow him to catch
his breath. On and on they walked, the King’s head lolling on his
shoulders, barely conscious.
  By midday Eskevar could move freely, though he still required the arm
of his Queen for support. His brow was damp with sweat and his shrunken
frame shaken by racking spasms of violent coughing. He swooned with
exhaustion.
  Durwin and Oswald carried him back to the bed as Alinea looked on,
wringing her hands. “He will sleep soundly now, I think. We will wake
him again in a while to eat. And he must walk again before the sun sets. I
will watch him through the night.”
  Durwin turned away from the bed and shook his head back and forth
slowly. “How could I have let him slip so far?”
  “In truth, it is not your blame. You have done all that could be asked,
and even now you have saved his life.” Alinea patted Durwin’s arm gently
and smiled with calm assurance.
  “The god has opened my eyes in time, my Lady. That is something
indeed to be thankful for. But we must not slacken our vigil again or he
will be lost. He is very weak and his strength very fragile.”
  “Come to the kitchen, Durwin, and refresh yourself. You, too, will be
needing your strength in the hours to come, as will we all.”
  Quentin twisted on the ground. A sharp pain seared through his side.
One eye was swelling shut, and his mouth, tasting of blood, throbbed with
a dull ache. He raised his head slowly and looked cautiously about.
   Smoke from the burning town still drifted in hanging cloud’s which
rolled along the ground, stinging his eyes and making his nose run. The
sun was barely up, a fierce red ball burning through the black haze which
filled the air and seeped down the slopes of the ravine where he lay.
   A soldier nearby saw Quentin’s slight movement and jabbed him in the
shoulder with the butt of his lance. Quentin put his head down again and
lay still; he had seen what he wanted to see. The main force of soldiers had
moved off; only a few remained to guard the prisoners—if prisoners there
were, for Toli was nowhere to be seen.
   Quentin tried to wiggle his fingers, but they were numb. The ropes
which bound him had been tied tightly and efficiently. Both hands were
thrust behind his back and lashed together; a loop passed around his neck
and one around his feet. To move hands or feet tightened the noose around
his neck and strangled him. But periodically Quentin wormed this way and
that in an attempt to better reckon his surroundings.
   It was only by the hand of the god that he was still alive. In the chaotic
moment of his capture he had been instantly beaten senseless. As he lay
bleeding on the ground, a scowling warrior had raised a double-bladed axe
over him. Quentin had seen the blade flash on its downward arc toward his
heart.
   He was saved at the last heartbeat by a hand which caught the axe-man’s
arm in midstroke. An argument had broken out then. Although Quentin
could not understand the slurred words of the rough speech, he knew that
it concerned him and his probable fate. The soldier with the axe wanted to
kill him at once. The other apparently insisted upon waiting, probably for
a superior’s approval. Quentin was then bound up and left to wonder what
awaited him.
   He did not have long to wait.
   He heard the hollow sound of a horse’s hooves. There was a sudden
scurrying around him, a harsh voice barked out an order, and he was
jerked ungently upward to his knees by two grim warriors grasping him by
the arms. The voice uttered another command, and Quentin’s head was
snapped sharply back by a hand thrust into his hair. His eyes squeezed
shut with the pain.
   When he opened them again, he was looking into the cold, hardened
eyes of a warlord of Nin.
   The warlord regarded him coolly. He was wearing a strange form of
battle dress made of bronze, which glowed in the rising sun with a
reddened luster that matched the tint of his flesh. His arms were covered in
sleeves of mail from his shoulders to his wide, heavy hands, and from
knee to ankle he wore bronze leggings. He wore no helmet, and his long
black hair was pulled back and bound in a long, thick braid which hung
down his back. A long, curved sword hung from the pommel of the saddle,
its thin blade besmeared with crimson ribbons of blood.
   The warlord’s horse, wide of shoulder and heavy of flank, shook its
braided mane and snorted loudly. One of the soldiers supporting Quentin
began speaking. The speech was strange to Quentin’s ears; he could not
think what language it might be, for he could not catch a word of it. But,
he guessed, the soldier was telling his commander about how the prisoner
had been captured.
   The warlord listened intently, interrupting the discourse to ask a
question at one point. Quentin then thought he saw a spark of interest light
the savage countenance. He spoke a quick command, and two soldiers
rushed forward and untied his legs. Then Quentin was hauled to his feet
and marched away. The warlord watched him go, then spurred his horse
and rode off down the ravine.
   Quentin was pulled up the steep bank of the dry stream bed. In the
smoke blowing across the field he saw soldiers, all wearing the same
coarse dark clothing, and carrying brutal-looking double-bladed battle-
axes, clustered around several great wagons. At one the soldiers gave up
their weapons, which were collected and placed in the wagon. At another
they were given large baskets. They then hurried back into the smoldering
remains of Illem.
   Quentin was taken to one of the nearer wagons and placed up against
one of the huge wheels—so large that it was fully as tall as he was. He
was untied and then lashed to the wheel by his wrists and ankles. He had
no choice but to watch the strange activity taking place in the ruins.
   A line of soldiers emerged from the curtain of smoke carrying sacks of
grain and casks of wine. These and other foodstuffs, the provisions of the
entire town, were heaped up into a great pile and then loaded into hand-
drawn barrows which carted the provisions away.
   Then soldiers with baskets began filing past two by two, moving off into
the hills. Quentin could not see where they were going, but knew the
general direction to be north. The men carried the baskets on their
shoulders, some bent low by the weight of what they carried. Quentin
wondered what the baskets contained.
  But as he watched the activity around him, his mind returned again and
again to the one thing he feared most. More than his own safety, he
wondered what had become of Toli. His friend, companion and servant
was gone. There were two possible explanations, he knew. Either Toli had
been killed in the attack, in which case his body lay unattended back down
in the ravine; or the crafty Jher had managed to somehow escape in the
confusion of the battle. Quentin prayed Toli had escaped.
  He heard a signal—a long blast on a horn—and a rank of men on horses
moved past the wagons. Each carried an axe and a shield as well as the
peculiar curved sword. The horses, too, were armored. Large discs of
hardened leather attached with rings of iron and woven into strips were
slung over the animals’ withers and rump, trailing almost to the ground.
Upon their hooves were bands of sharpened spikes; and two long, cruel
spikes sprouted from each horse’s headplate as well.
  Whoever they were, thought Quentin, they had come prepared for war.
  When the riders had passed he heard another blast on the horn and, to
his horror, the wagons began roiling. Quentin, thinking they had forgotten
about him, cried out as the wheel on which he was tied rolled forward. His
cries brought nothing but laughter from soldiers passing nearby. He knew
then that they had not forgotten him. He was intended to travel with them
in this torturous manner, battered slowly to death on the turning wheel.



                        FOURTEEN
  YESEPH SAT on a bench in his courtyard, head nodding on his breast.
All around him the gentle sounds of evening crept into the air. The sun
had slipped behind the hills of Dekra and though the sky was still a
brilliant blue, streaked with orange clouds, long evening shadows cast the
clean-swept courtyard of the esteemed Elder into deep gloaming.
  Beside him a young laurel tree rattled its fragrant leaves in the fitful
breeze. The feathery notes of a lilting melody drifted over the wall and fell
into the courtyard like delicate petals of a flower. His cup sat untasted near
his hand. He sighed heavily.
   There was a slight pit-a-pat and the rustle of clothing and Karyll, his
wife, was beside him. Yeseph could feel the warmth of her presence as she
stood looking down on him.
   “My husband is tired from his day’s work,” she said. “Dear one,
awaken; our evening meal is ready.” Her voice was as light and soothing
as the breeze that played in the tree.
   Yeseph raised his head, and she saw his eyes gradually take in his
surroundings as awareness returned. She saw the deeply-etched lines of
concern furrow his brow and crinkle around his eyes. He smiled when he
saw her, and she noticed that it was a sad smile with no light in it.
   “Husband, what is wrong?” She waited for him to tell her.
   “I have had a dream,” Yeseph explained simply.
   “And your dream has troubled you, for it was a dream of darkness
instead of light.”
   “How much you women see. Yes, it was a dream of darkness—a vision.
I saw...” he began, and then stopped. “No, I must not tell what I have seen
just yet. I must ponder it in my heart for a time.”
   “Then you may eat while you ponder. Come, your supper will be getting
cold.”
   She turned and padded back into their dwelling. Yeseph watched her go,
thinking how lucky he had been to find one so wise and understanding to
share his old age. He breathed a prayer of thanksgiving to Whist Orren for
his good fortune. Then he raised himself slowly and followed her in.
   As they lingered over their meal, Karyll watched her mate closely. He
did not eat with his usual fresh appetite, but dawdled over his plate. In the
lambent glow of the candles on the tow table Yeseph sank further into
pensive reflection. Twice he brought a morsel of food to his mouth only to
return it to the plate absently.
   “Yeseph,” Karyll murmured gently, “you have not eaten well tonight.
Your dream has upset you. If you will not tell me, perhaps you will tell the
Elders instead.”
   “Yes, that is what I must do.” He got up from his stool at once and went
to the door where he paused and turned toward her, his form a dark
silhouette against the evening sky. He seemed suddenly to come to himself
once more. “I am going to call together the other Elders. We will meet
tonight. Do not wait for me, my love. It may be very late.”
  “I do not mind. I have some work with which to occupy myself while
you are gone. Now, away with you. The quicker you go, the quicker I will
have my Yeseph back.”
  In an inner chamber of the great Ariga temple Yeseph waited for the
Elders to join him. It would not be long, for he had sent runners, three of
the young men who served in the temple, to fetch the other Curatak
leaders. He had merely to wait for their arrival and the meeting could
begin. Yeseph busied himself with lighting the many candles which stood
on their long holders around the bare room.
  In the center of the room four straight, high-backed chairs sat in a circle
facing each other. When the candles had been lit Yeseph took his place,
folding his hands in his lap in quiet meditation. In a few moments the
curtains which overhung the chamber’s entrance parted and the familiar
form of Jollen entered, smoothing his council robes.
  “Good evening, Elder Yeseph. Your summons saved me from quite a
distasteful chore—I had promised to begin translating a song for some of
the children.”
  “That distasteful? Surely, you do not mean it. If you do, perhaps it were
better you went back and got right to work.”
  “Oh, do not misunderstand. I love the children and would give them
anything. But the song they have chosen is of the old Ariga dialect. A very
dreary piece about an unhappy youngster who is changed into a willow
because of his complaining. I tried to persuade them to choose something
happier, but their hearts were set on this one and none other.”
  “You will be the better for it in the end, I am sure,” laughed Yeseph.
“An excursion into the old dialect will sharpen your wits.”
  Jollen made a wry face. “If I did not know better, I would suspect you of
having put them up to it. It would be just like you.”
  The next to enter was Patur, the unofficial leader of the group. It was he
who most often took it upon himself to inform the Curatak of the Elders’
decisions in matters of public import. He was a most able and influential
orator and often led the worship in the temple. He was well-studied in the
religion of the vanished Ariga.
  “Greetings, my learned friends,” he said, adjusting the robe he had just
donned upon entering the chamber. His eyes gleamed in anticipation of the
evening’s work, for, whatever it was, it would involve him in close
communion with other sharp minds, a thing he dearly loved.
  “Greetings, Patur. Thank you for coming along so quickly. We have
only to await... ah! Here he comes now.” Yeseph nodded to the curtain
and Clemore, the most recent addition to the group upon the death of
Asaph, the oldest member, entered, bowing low.
  “Good evening, brothers. I pray you are well.” The others nodded, and
they all took their places.
  Yeseph looked from one to the other of their familiar faces. These were
his most trusted friends; yes, Clemore was right, his brothers. He could tell
them his dream and they would shoulder its burden, no matter how small
or great it would prove in the end. He felt better just being in their
presence and wondered if any of them ever felt the same way about him.
He supposed they did, as often as they had sought his counsel singly or
with the others. Now it was his turn to put a problem before them.
  “Good Yeseph, do not keep us in suspense any longer. Tell us what
disturbs you, for I see in your eyes that your spirit is distressed by
something,” said Patur.
  “You speak aright; I am troubled.” He paused as he collected his
thoughts and looked at each of them in turn. “This evening I had a dream.
Very brief it was, and very strange.”
  “You believe it to presage something of significance?” asked Clemore.
  “I do.”
  “And have you an interpretation for us?”
  “No, that is why I have asked you to come here tonight. I thought
perhaps together we might seek understanding.”
  “Very well,” said Jollen, “tell us your dream as it came to you. We will
ask the Most High to enlighten us with its meaning.”
  Yeseph nodded slowly and, closing his eyes, began to recite his dream.
  “I had just stepped into the courtyard when a great drowsiness came
over me, even though I had not eaten. I quickly fell asleep where I sat and
began to dream. And the dream was this:
  “I saw a river running through the land, and wherever the river touched
the land it sprang forth abundantly with green shoots and trees and food
for all living things. And the water was clear and good; men came to the
river’s edge to drink, and the wild creatures drank and were satisfied.
   “But then a dark storm came out of the east and began to blow. The river
still ran, but the water began to change, becoming the color of blood. At
first just a trace of red clouded the clean water, but it deepened until the
water ran black and the river became foul.
   “Now no one could drink from the river and live; men who drank of it
died, and animals too. And all the trees and grass and flowers which had
sprung up along the river’s banks now withered and died. The land
became desolate, for all things depended upon the river for their life. The
winds came and blew away the dust and dust filled the air in great clouds
covering the land, and the river dried up.”
   Yeseph paused, drew breath and continued. In the silence of the inner
chamber his words sounded like the toll of a bell.
   “Darkness fell upon the land, and I heard a voice crying out. It was the
voice of a terrified child, saying, ‘Where is my father? I am afraid. Where
is my protector?’
   “The darkness rolled up in answer to the child. It spoke with the voice of
the night and said, ‘Your father’s bones are dust and scattered to the
winds. Your protector’s sword is broken. You will live in darkness all
your days, for now you are a child of the night.’
   “I wept to hear those words. My tears fell like a mighty rain upon the
earth. And the rain of tears washed over the land, which had become a
bowl to catch the tears and hold them all.
   “Another voice, mightier than the first, called out and said, ‘Where are
my servants? What has become of those whom I call upon?”
   “I answered, saying, ‘I am here and only I—all others have perished.’ I
fell on my face in my grief.
   “The voice answered me and said, ‘Rise up and take the bowl and pour
it out.’ I took the bowl in my hands and poured it out, and it became a
sword of living light which flashed in the face of the darkness, and the
darkness fled before it. ‘Take the sword!’ the voice commanded.
   “I began to tremble all over because I knew I could not take up the
sword. ‘I have never touched a sword and do not know how to use it,’ I
argued.
   “ ‘Then give it to the child,’ the great voice answered. ‘He will use it,
and you will guide his hand.’
  “But when I looked for the child to give him the shining sword, he was
gone. The night had swallowed him up, though I could hear him crying as
the darkness carried him further and further away.”
  Yeseph opened his eyes once more and looked at his brothers in their
council robes. They sat unmoving as they pondered his words. Their eyes
were grave, and their faces reflected the concern they all felt at hearing
Yeseph’s dream.
  “Brothers,” intoned Patur deeply, “this is a most unsettling dream. I hear
in it a warning of some urgency. Let us now ask the Most High to guide us
in our interpretation, for I believe it is given us this night to oppose the
power of darkness bespoken in the dream.”
  At that the Elders of Dekra joined hands and began to pray.



                            FIFTEEN
   THE SLEEK black stallion seemed to flow down hills and through
valleys like water. Esme had only to press with her knees or move a hand
to the right or left and the horse responded, as if to her very thoughts. The
animal was remarkably well-trained—so much so that Esme began to fear
for its welfare. Riv would run until his heart burst before slackening his
pace in disobedience to his rider’s command.
   The scene of the ill-fated fight lay far behind her now and still the horse
flew on, the lather steaming off his neck and shoulders in flecks whipped
away by the wind. Esme saw the dark line of a creek snaking through the
lowland valley ahead. Where the creek rounded the grassy base of a hill
there rose a stand of young birches, shimmering white in the morning
light. That, she thought, would be a good place to rest.
   “Whoa, Riv!” she called, leaning forward in the saddle. She pulled the
reins back with the lightest touch, and the horse slowed to a canter and
then a trot. Esme let him cool down before reaching the quiet stream,
knowing that it would not be good to let him drink his fill while still hot
from the dune and winded. She would need this horse if she were to reach
Askelon.
   The birches ringed a shady hollow where long grasses grew, fed by the
stream. It was secluded and invisible to any who might come after her.
The stony feet of the hill lay exposed at one side of the hollow where the
stream formed a shallow pool.
  She slid from the saddle and led Riv into the shady grove, walking him
slowly. The hollow was cool and silent and full of golden spatters of
sunlight and green shadow. Warily she advanced toward the running water
heard spilling blithely over a rank of stones set in its course. She heard the
call of a meadow bird above her on the hill and the swish of the horse’s
legs moving through the grass. That was all, apart from the bubbling
water. Yes, she was safe.
  Esme led her mount to the edge of the pool and watched as he plunged
his nose into the water. He drank deeply and pulled his head out of the
stream to shake his gleaming mane in the sunlight. Glistening pearls of
water were flung into the air, then splashed back into the crystal pool. She
watched as the horse repeated the procedure several more times, and each
time she was a little closer to forgetting that she had just barely escaped
with her life.
  Riv snorted and turned away from the water to stand looking at her
calmly, as if to say, “You may drink—I will keep watch.” Esme knelt in
the long grass, cupped her hands and brought the clear water to her mouth.
When she had finished, she led Riv to a patch of wild clover and let him
eat his fill. She did not bother to tether him, knowing that a horse as well-
trained as Riv would not abandon his rider to wander off.
  She left the horse to crop the clover and turned her attention to the hill
nearby. It presented to her the highest vantage for viewing her
surroundings. Having left the fray at the ravine with little more thought
than to come away with her skin, she had almost no idea where she might
be. As much as possible she had tried to hold to the direction whereby
they had entered the ravine in the first place, her object being to regain the
road they had been following. Once on the road she would turn north and
then hurry to Askelon.
  Esme climbed the steep slope of the hill as it rose out of the vale and
above the trees. Out of the shade, the air was warmer and alive with bees
and butterflies beginning their daily chores. A fresh wind blew ruffles
along the tall grass; the sky billowed bright and blue, unconcerned with
the darker deeds of night and desperate men. Here she could almost forget
what had passed just a few hours earlier.
  But she could not forget the two gallant men who had so courageously
flown to the aid of the helpless townspeople and who had, without
question, offered her protection as well. As she reached the crown of the
hill she turned her eyes back toward Diem, now leagues behind her. There
was nothing to be seen; not even a smudge of smoke on the horizon
remained to mark the place.
  For a moment she stood in indecision—should she return and try to
discover what had become of her friends? Or go on, to complete her
charge and deliver her message to the King?
  It was an empty choice, she knew. The enemy which had overcome
them in the ravine at Diem was the same which had surprised her and her
companions on the road. Now the lives of two more had been added to the
sum, for there was little doubt in her mind that by now Quentin and Toli
were dead. And were it not for the importance of her mission she would
have stayed to share their fate.
  There was nothing to be done but to go on.
  She gazed out over the land, her dark eyes sweeping the horizon for any
recognizable landmark. Away to the south she saw a thin slice of spangled
blue which merged with the sky. The sea, she thought, I have not gone far
wrong. By squinting up her eyes she could almost see the road itself as it
hugged the coastal hills. She cast one last look over her shoulder to see if
the dark enemy had followed her, but saw nothing except the radiant sky
and the hills of summer. So she turned with heavy heart to leave.
  Clambering back down the side of the hill Esme heard the excited
whinny of a horse. Was it Riv or some other? She stopped, her heart now
fluttering in panic. She listened.
  From beneath the leafy canopy directly below her she heard again the
shrill scream of a horse in distress. In the tangle of leaves and branches
she could not see the animal, nor its assailant. As quickly and as quietly as
she could, she slipped the rest of the way down the hill, careful not to
show herself openly.
  Once below the treetops she saw Riv, legs splayed, head down, backed
against the rocks, shaking his mane and baring his teeth. But she could see
nothing at all that should so upset him. All was as she had left it. Not a
single intruder, man or beast, was in evidence.
  Esme dropped to the ground and crouched in the grass for a moment.
Hearing nothing and seeing nothing disturbing, she rose and went to the
frightened animal to comfort it.
   “There, Riv. Easy, boy.” She patted his sleek jaw and curled a slim arm
around his neck. “Easy now. What is it... huh? What has affrighted my
brave one?”
   The horse calmed under her touch and soothing voice. He nickered
softly low in his throat and tossed his head. But he continued to look away
across the creek—at nothing Esme could see.
   “There, now. See? All is well. There is nothing—”
   Before Esme could finish, Riv tossed his head, eyes rolling white in
terror, and broke away from her. She snatched at the dangling reins, but
the horse leaped away and ran through the long grass to stand whinnying
across the hollow.
   “Riv!” Esme shouted impatiently. “You perverse creature! Come back
here!” She stood with her hands on her hips as the horse bucked and shied,
spinning in circles of fear as she watched. What had gotten into that
animal? wondered Esme. She had seen nothing like it before.

         Away, foul beast!
         And take your rider—
         Or be ye still,
         And stand beside her.

  At the strange, singsong words spoken in a rasping gabble of a voice,
Esme whirled around. Her hand flew to the long dagger at her belt.

         Not hangman’s knot,
         Nor blade of knife
         Prevail against
         This sibyl’s life!

   Esme could not believe her eyes. For there, in a huddle of rags on a rock
in the middle of the creek, stood a humpbacked old woman. She held a
long staff in one hand and waved the other before her as if warding off
bees. As Esme watched in mute astonishment, the old woman hopped
lightly as a cricket from stone to stone and so crossed the stream without
so much as wetting a single tatter.
  Upon landing on the bank the old women shook her rap in a flurry and
stamped the ground three times with her staff. Then she proceeded to
hobble toward the spot where Esme stood gaping in amazement. Where
had she come from?
  “Who are you, old mother?” asked Esme warily. The withered creature
did not answer but drew closer in her peculiar hopping gait, swinging the
staff and puffing mightily. Her hair hung in a mass of tangled gray snakes
bedecked with bits of leaf and twig. The shriveled face looked like a dried
apple, a mass of lines and creases browned by the wind and baked by the
sun. When the woman moved, Esme imagined she could hear her brittle
bones rattle; she appeared as old as the rocks under the hill.
  “Who are you?” Esme repeated her question.
  The hag made a pass in front of her with her wavering paw. Esme saw
the rough hands and blackened nails and noticed, too, the scent of smoke
and filth which billowed about the old woman.

         If rock and hill
         And laughing water
         Be hearth and home,
         I’m Orphe’s daughter,

  She turned her weathered face slyly toward Esme and grinned a leering,
toothless grin. It was then that Esme saw the sunken sockets where once
eyes used to be. The old woman was utterly blind.
  “You live here... in this hollow?”

         So ye say
         And speak ye true.
         And I would ask
         The same of you.

  “Me? I am Esme. I did not mean to disturb your home. I heard the
horse...” She turned and noticed Riv had calmed and now stood watching
and cautiously nodding his head as if spellbound. “I will trouble you no
further, but will leave at once.”

          Of leaving let
          No man be spoken,
          Till I have known
          You by your token.

  The ancient oracle held out her hand and propped her chin on her staff
and waited. She looked like a bent and gnarled tree on a withered stump
offering a lonely branch. Her ragged clothing fluttered in the breeze like
leaves.
  “I do not have a token, old mother,” said Esme, thinking fast. It did not
do to upset an oracle. Especially one of the caste who called themselves
the daughters of Orphe, for they were very powerful and wise. “But let me
offer a blessing in your name when next I come to a shrine.”
  The hag threw back her head and laughed, and Esme saw two lonely
brown teeth clinging like lichens to their place in the elderly jaw. The old
seeress’ laughter rang like the clatter of hail in an empty pot.

          Of blessings I
          Have little need.
          Bless me instead
          With a noble deed.

  Esme started at the old woman’s use of the word noble. She asked
suspiciously, “What deed would you have me perform?”

          The rabbit caught
          Within yon briar,
          Tastes the better
          When aroast with fire.

  The old woman crooked a knobby finger along the stream behind them.
Esme followed it with her eyes and saw a hawthorn thicket rustling
vigorously as if something were indeed caught within it.
   “You would have me cook you a meal? This is the deed you require?”
Esme did not like the idea; she was anxious to resume her journey. The
country was not safe; the enemy prowled the hills at will. She had had two
encounters already and did not welcome a third. She wished she had some
item of value she could give the hag and be on her way. “Very well,” she
said slowly, and reluctantly went to retrieve the rabbit she knew she would
find caught among the thorns.
   Orphe’s daughter turned and followed her with sightless sockets. She
smiled, and the wrinkled old face contorted in a shrewd, lipless grimace.
She mumbled happily to herself and fluttered like a crippled bird to perch
herself upon a nearby rock to wait.
   Esme had no difficulty catching the rabbit. She could see it struggling in
the thicket. Reaching in carefully, she pulled it out by the scruff of the
neck. She could feel its tiny heart beating madly as she held it close. It
gave a terrified kick and leaped out of her arms. Esme watched as it
bounded away, afraid that she had lost it and would now be cursed by the
oracle for failing in her deed.
   But the rabbit, a plump hare, gave two faltering jumps and then pitched
forward—dead. Esme ran to it and picked it up. The racing heart was still.
She took her dagger and cut off its head to bleed it. She left it dangling by
its hind legs from a branch while she went in search of wood to make a
fire.
   When at last the fire was crackling and the skinned rabbit gutted and
roasting on a spit, Esme went to the seeress and announced, “Your meal
will be ready soon, old mother. And I have found you an apple to eat with
your meat.” The apple she had thoughtfully peeled and diced into a
wooden bowl which she retrieved from Toli’s pack behind the saddle. She
then ground the large golden globe to mash with the handle of her dagger.
   The hag said nothing but hopped nearer the fire and seated herself. Esme
went to the stream and filled a second bowl with water.
   “Perhaps Orphe’s daughter would care to wash her hands before eating,”
Esme said gently, holding the bowl before her.
   The old woman nodded regally and dipped her hands daintily into the
bowl and rubbed them together. The water turned murky with dirt. The old
woman then wiped her wet hands on her filthy clothes and smiled.
   Esme fetched her another bowl of water, took the cooked meat from the
spit and cut it into strips which she shredded and chopped. “Your meal,
my lady,” said Esme, for the oracle had assumed a queenly air as she was
presented with the bowl of apple and rabbit, thoroughly minced.
   Esme withdrew to watch the old woman dine with obvious pleasure,
licking her fingers and smacking her lips. When she had finished, she held
out the bowl for more. Esme filled it again and sat down beside her to
wait. The sun reached its zenith, dwindling the shadows in the glade to
nothing, and still the old woman hunkered over her bowl. Esme clasped
her hand around her knees and forced herself to wait as patiently as
possible.
   At last the old woman had eaten her fill. She placed the bowls on the
ground beside her and rose up with much creaking and snapping of joints.
She shook herself forward to stand before Esme and leaned once more on
her staff. This she did with such surety of motion and without hesitation
that Esme realized for the first time that the hag saw as much with her
inner eye as others did with perfect vision. She shuddered to think that as a
child the woman had probably had her eyes put out to further enhance her
strange gift

         The deed was done
         And with thoughtful art.
         As best befits
         A most noble heart.
         By this I know
         As by a gold ring,
         Princess ye an
         And your father King.

   Esme gasped and jumped to her feet. The hag had spoken rightly, but it
frightened her to have her secret so easily known.
   “You see much that cannot be seen with eyes alone, priestess. Since I
have served you as you asked, allow me to leave with your blessing.”

         A blessing ye ask
         And this ye receive,
         Your secret safe
         If none you deceive.
         Full rare is she
         Whose safety would spend
         In risking death
         For love of a friend.
         But this ye do
         And this will be found:
         Your errand done
         When two are unbound.

  The old woman turned and scuttled away. Esme felt a nudge at her
elbow and realized that Riv had come to her and was anxious to be off and
away from the queer old woman.
  Esme climbed into the saddle and watched the shapeless bundle of rags
hop from stone to stone back across the stream. “Thank you for the
blessing, daughter of Orphe. May your prophecy be true.”
  At that the hag stopped and turned once more toward Esme. She raised
her crooked staff overhead with both hands and turned around three times
very fast. Esme wondered that she did not fall off her precarious perch in
the middle of the stream.
  The old woman’s rasping voice rose to fill all the hollow.

         I speak what is
         And not what may be.
         But since you ask,
         Hear my prophecy

  The oracle raised her face toward the sky and muttered a long
incantation while the staff waved back and forth over her head. Then she
brought the knobby head of the rod down with a crack upon the stone
where she stood. Her hand shot into the air, fingers spread like a claw. Her
words echoed in the dell.
         Seek ye the sword
         And do not yield it!
         If foe be flayed,
         A King must wield it.

  With a skip and a jump the hag disappeared as quickly and as
mysteriously as she had come. But long after she was gone her words rang
in Esme’s ears like the clear peal of a bell.



                          SIXTEEN
   QUENTIN HUNG limply from the wagon wheel, his mind benumbed
with the pain drumming through every extremity of his broken body. He
whimpered softly, unaware that he was making any sound at all—unaware
of anything but the throbbing, insistent agony.
   All day long the wheel had spun—over rock and root, through dust and
deep water. And Quentin, lashed to the wheel, had been slowly tortured
into insensibility. He did not notice when the wheel finally stopped, nor
when the sun set, nor when night brought an end to his torture.
   He hung on the wheel and whimpered softly and pitifully as darkness
deepened around him.
   Amidst the ordered confusion of Nin’s army making camp for the night,
the moon rose fair and full, and with it the Wolf Star. Quentin gazed
unblinking at the moon with unseeing eyes. Some small part of his mind
watched it curiously, a frightened animal peering out from the cave where,
it had retreated to escape the hunters.
   After a long time it seemed to Quentin that the moon was coming
toward him, leaving its course in the black dome of heaven to swim closer
and closer. He could see it weaving over him, shining with a gentle light.
It had two dark eyes that watched strangely. He wanted to reach out and
place his hand against its smooth luminous surface, but his hands would
not obey. Then the moon disappeared.
   Years passed, or were they moments? Quentin next felt something cool
touch his forehead. He opened his eyes and saw that the moon had come
back. It was looking at him and whispering to him, but be could not hear
the words though they buzzed softly in his ears. He struggled to lift his
head to speak, but lacked the strength, so simply allowed the moon to
comfort him with its cool touch.
   “Kenta, can you hear me? It is Toli. Kenta...”
   Quentin blinked his eyes and peered dully back at the round shining face
of the moon. He opened his mouth to speak, but could not remember how
to form the words.
   “Do not try to speak. Just listen to me. I have come to free you. Kenta,
can you hear me?”
   Quentin moaned. Why was this moon so persistent? What did it want?
He wanted only to drift back into the soothing void of unconsciousness.
   “Here is some water.” He felt something press against his lips, and cool
liquid spilt gently into his mouth. He swallowed feebly and then again.
“Drink it slowly,” came the whisper.
   Next Quentin felt something tugging at his hand. He felt it, though it
seemed to him that his hand was faraway and no longer a part of him.
When the hand was free, it fell limp and useless to dangle at his side. He
watched as the moon stooped to slice through the cords which bound his
feet. Then the other hand swung free, and he pitched forward onto his
knees and into the solid arms of the moon who whispered in his ear, “Can
you move?”
   Quentin made no answer. He felt himself rolled to the ground gently and
then half-lifted, half-dragged under the shelter of the wagon. His head was
raised, and the cool liquid poured into his mouth. Then he was laid back
down, and Toli fell to rubbing some life back into his friend’s mangled
limbs. He sank once more into peaceful oblivion.
   “Kenta, wake up.” The voice was the barest of whispers. Warm breath
tickled his ear. “It is time to go.”
   “Toli?” The word was a slurred moan.
   “Shh!—not so loud. I am here. Thank the god you are alive. I thought I
had lost you.”
   “What has happened? Ooohh...” His shoulder had begun throbbing
again, and the pain and the night chill revived him somewhat. “Where...
where am I?”
   “There is no time, Kenta. It will be morning soon. We must get away
now. Can you move?”
   “I—I do not know. I do not think so.”
   “You must try. Come, I will help you.” Toli gently lifted his master to a
sitting position, but even this effort caused black waves of dizziness to
wash over Quentin. He moaned again and could not restrain it.
   “I think your right arm is broken, Kenta. Hold it close to your side and
try not to move it.”
   “I cannot feel anything. But my shoulder... ahh!” Toli had placed his
hands under Quentin’s arm to drag him from beneath the wagon.
   “The soldiers are asleep, but there are sentries around the perimeter.
They are careless, for they are not expecting an encounter this night. We
have a chance. Can you stand?”
   “I...” With Toli’s help he struggled to his feet, then swayed uncertainly.
The pain took his breath away.
   “I will hold you, but we must move now.” Toli guided his first faltering
steps as Quentin stumbled helplessly forward, trying to make his legs
move in harmony. It was no use—he collapsed not two steps from where
they had started.
   “Good,” grunted Toli. “We try again. Lean on me.” He raised Quentin
back to his feet, and they started off again.
   Quentin tried to raise his head, but searing fireballs of pain burned
through his brain at the effort. He let his head wobble upon his chest as
Toli propelled them forward. The earth felt queer beneath his feet, as if it
were rolling away from him with every step. His legs kept entangling
themselves and tripping him, but somehow Toli kept them both upright
and moving.
   “Ahead is a gully—maybe fifty paces. We will be hidden there. We can
rest before moving again. But we must be as far away from here as
possible before daylight.”
   They lurched through the darkness as Toli’s nighthawk vision kept
watch for signs of discovery. They were moving away from camp; the
wagons stood between them and the huddled masses of sleeping enemy
soldiers. But ahead lay the circle of sentries at their posts.
   The gully, little more than a weedy depression carved in the ground,
opened before them, and Quentin slid down the side to lay panting on his
back when they reached it. His head ached and dark shapes, like the wings
of ravens, swarmed before his eyes.
  “Listen,” Toli said. He crawled to the rim of the gully to look back
toward the wagons. “I think they may have discovered our escape.
Someone is moving around the wagon. We must move on quickly.”
  He lifted Quentin to his feet and, crouching as low as could be managed,
they staggered off again.
  Quentin concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and
staying upright; Toli bore the responsibility for keeping them moving. It
was all Quentin could do not to cry out with pain when his shoulder was
jostled.
  “There are trees up ahead. If we can reach them, perhaps we can rest
again.”
  As Toli spoke they heard a shout behind them and the rattle of armed
men running. “They know!” cried Toli pulling them forward.
  The trees loomed up as a black mass hurled against a black sky. The
moon had set long ago; Toli had chosen this, the darkest hour of the night,
for their escape. Twice Quentin stumbled and fell full-length to the
ground, and Toli could not prevent it. Each time Quentin gamely hauled
himself back to his feet, though the agony blinded him.
  Somehow they reached the trees. Toli propped Quentin up beside a
fallen trunk and left him there holding his arm with his good hand. Though
the night was cool Quentin swam in his own sweat and tasted its salty tang
on his lips. He fought to remain conscious when he saw the black wings
fluttering closer. He felt as if he did not have a single bone that had not
been wrenched out of joint. Toli was back beside him in an instant. “They
are looking for us. They know you have escaped. They have not yet turned
toward the trees, but it is only a matter of time. They will find the gully,
and they will follow it as we have. We cannot stop here.”
  Quentin gasped and nodded. His temples pulsed with the pain as it
twisted deeper and deeper into him. He could feel his strength slipping
away. With Toli beside him he started off again, blindly; for between the
sweat running in his eyes and the darkness of the wood he could see
nothing.
  There were torches wavering over the landscape now. The soldiers were
searching for them in knots of three or more, spreading out over the land.
Soon Quentin could hear their voices echoing behind them as they dodged
and floundered through the trees. Once he thought he saw the flare of a
torch off to his right moving even with them. The voices of their pursuers,
excited by the chase, sounded closer.
   “I have a horse waiting—” Toli said. “Down there.” Quentin realized
dimly that they were standing at the top of a low bluff whose slope was
clothed in brambles. Before he could speak Toli had them plunging down
the slope and into the thickets heedless of the barbs tearing at their flesh.
   Quentin fought his way through and, with Toli ever at his side, had
almost reached the bottom when his foot struck against a root and he was
flung headlong down the slope. He landed hard, unable to break his fall
with his hands, and heard a sickening snap as he felt something give way
in his injured shoulder. Daggers of pain stabbed into the wound. A startled
scream tore from his throat before he could stifle it.
   Toli darted past him, and Quentin felt a rush of movement just in front
of him and realized he had landed almost underneath the horse Toli had
somehow acquired and hidden for their escape.
   Then he felt Toli’s strong hands jerking him once more to his feet. He
was pushed into the saddle to hang like a sack of barley, head on one side
and feet on the other. Toli was instantly behind him, holding him on with
one hand and snapping the reins with the other.
   The horse jumped away, and Quentin saw the earth spin aside in a
jumble of confused shapes: branches, rocks, sky and ground. He saw a
light and then another. He heard a shout close at hand and an answer not
far away. His teeth ground against each other as he clung helplessly to the
saddle.
   Now the shouts of the enemy were all around. A dark shape rushed at
them from out of the brush. Toli slashed down at it with the reins.
Suddenly the copse was ablaze with torches. Toli jerked the reins hard and
turned the horse toward the slope, but it was too steep for the frightened
animal The horse struggled, slid, pawed the air and then fell back, legs
pumping furiously.
   Quentin was flung to the ground and Toli on top of him. In an instant
they were ringed in by soldiers and seized. Quentin saw the flash of a
torch and the awful scowl of a face leering over him; then black hands
grabbed him and began dragging him away. He heard a voice shouting in
desperation and realized it was his own. But he could not make out the
words.
   He jerked his head around to see what had become of Toli, but could
only see the swinging torches behind him. How bright the flaming brands
are, he thought. It hurt his eyes to look at them. Run, get away! another
voice told him, this one inside his head. Yes, he must escape. If only they
would release him, he would run and run and not stop running until he was
far away.
  Where were they taking him? he wondered. What would happen to him?
The questions framed themselves in his mind, but no answers came. Very
well, it did not matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He had ceased to feel
anything at all. Numb with pain, he was transported into a hallucinatory
vision.
  There was a rush of black wings and suddenly he was soaring, falling,
tumbling, floating high above the earth. Quentin looked down and saw a
strange procession of torchbearers marching through a wooded dell. They
carried with them the bodies of two unfortunates. Who could they be?
Quentin was sorry for them.
  Sadly, be turned his eyes away and saw the dark edge of the night
sweeping toward him.
  It was as if a silken veil had passed before his eyes removing all from
view. He let it touch him and enfold him in its dark embrace. Quentin felt
the last fine threads of strength and will leave him and he knew no more.



                     SEVENTEEN
  THE CANDLES burned low in their tall holders; several had sputtered
out and the inner chamber of the Elders smelled of hot beeswax and
tallow. The Elders sat stonelike, each one hunched over, head bowed and
hands clasped. All was silent, but for the rhythmic sigh of their breathing.
  The night had drawn full measure, and still they sat. Waiting. Listening.
Searching within themselves for an answer to Yeseph’s dream—a most
disturbing dream.
  Then at last the waiting was over, for Clemore raised his hands and
began to sing. “Peran nim Panrai, rigelle des onus Whist Orren. Entona
blesori amatill kor des yoel belforas.” He sang in the ancient tongue of the
Ariga. “King of Kings, whose name is Most High, your servant praises
your name forever.”
   The three others slowly raised their heads and looked at Clemore. His
eyes were closed and his hands raised to either side of his face.
   “Speak, Elder Clemore. Tell us what has been revealed to you,” Patur
said quietly. The others nodded and leaned back in their high-backed
wooden chain; the vigil was over.
   Clemore, eyes still closed, began to speak. “The river is Truth and the
water Peace,” he said. “And the river runs through the land giving life to
all who seek it, for Truth is life.
   “But the storm of war descends, and its evil defiles the water. Truth is
poisoned by the lie and is choked off. When Truth perishes and Peace
dries up, the land dies. And the gales of war blow over the land filling the
sky with clouds of death, which is the dust. Then darkness—Evil—covers
all, blotting out the light of Good.
   “The child who cries out in the darkness is a Child of the Light who has
lost his father, the ways of righteousness. His father’s sword is the
knowledge of the Truth, which has been destroyed.
   “But there are some left who do not go down to death and darkness, who
still remember the River and the Water and the Living Land. They are the
man who weeps. The tears are the prayers of the Holy who mourn the
coming of Evil.
   “The prayers are poured out and become a Sword of Light which is
Faith. The Sword flashes against the darkness of Evil because it is alive
with the Spirit of the Most High. The Sword is to be given to the Child,
but alas! the Child has been overcome by the Night and is carried off.”
   When Clemore had finished his retelling of the dream they all spoke at
once, joining in agreement with the interpretation. Yeseph’s voice rang
above the others. “Brothers! We must not forget that dreams may have
several meanings and all of them true. I do not doubt that the interpretation
we have just heard is truly of the Most High. But I am troubled by one
thing.”
   “What is that?” asked Jollen. He opened his hand toward Yeseph,
inviting him to speak freely. “It was your dream, after all”
   “I feel as if there were some more present danger yet unspoken.”
   “Certainly the dream is dire enough, Yeseph,” said Patur.
   “And its interpretation is clear warning,” added Clemore.
  “Yes, a warning of something to come,” said Yeseph slowly, “but also a
reflection of something even now taking place.”
  “Well said, Yeseph. I think so, too.” Jollen reached across and touched
his arm. “The interpretation was given to us that we might be ready for
what is to come. The dream was given to us that we might know there is
peril even now upon us.”
  Clemore nodded gravely, and Patur pulled on his gray beard.
  “What does your heart tell you, Yeseph? What are we to do?” asked the
latter.
  “I hardly know, Patur. But I feel a great torment in my spirit. It has
grown through the night as we have sat here.” He glanced at the others. “I
feel that we must even now pray for the Child of Light whom we have
sent out from among us.”
  “Who is that, Yeseph?” asked Clemore.
  “Quentin.”
  “Quentin? But he is in Askelon.”
  “Quentin, yes. And Toli, too. They are in desperate need; I feel it.
  “Then it may be,” replied Jollen, "that our prayers are needed at this
moment if the dream is to have an ending.” He turned to the others. “I,
too, am troubled about Yeseph’s dream. It does not suggest an end, which
means that the end is still in doubt. Therefore, we must unite our spirits,
and those of our people, to bring about the ending which the Most High
will show us.”
  “Your thoughts are mine,” said Yeseph.
  “Then let us not waste another moment. Our prayers must begin at
once.” Jollen raised his hands and closed his eyes. The others followed his
example.
  In moments the temple chamber was filled with the murmur of the
Elder’s prayers ascending to the throne of Whist Orren. Outside the temple
the silvery light of dawn was tinting the gray curtain of night in the east
  Dawn brought with it a sullen chill. The horizon showed an angry red,
dull and brooding, though the sky seemed clear enough overhead. The
wind had changed with the coming of morning; Toli had noted it as he lay
bound beside his master. Quentin hardly breathed at all. He clung to life
with a tenuous grasp. Several times before dawn Toli had had to place his
ear against Quentin’s chest to see if he still lived.
   In the camp the soldiers were busy making ready for their day’s march.
Toli, whose eyes missed nothing, had a presentiment that he and Quentin
would not be making the trip with them, for he had seen a group of
soldiers readying ropes and harness, and the three guards who now stood
over them laughed and pointed at them. Toli knew that the means of their
execution was being prepared.
   The cooking fires sent white smoke drifting through the camp. The
guard was changed on the prisoners, so those who had watched through
the night could be fed. When all the soldiers had eaten and were ready to
march, reckoned Toli, they would be assembled to view the execution as
an entertainment, something to dwell on as they marched that day.
   Toli spent his last moments of life praying for his master, who could not
pray for himself.
   He was roused with a sharp kick to his back. The blow rolled him over,
and Toli looked up into the hate-filled face of a giant who held a battle-axe
with a head blade as wide as a man’s waist.
   The giant, whose face was seamed with criss-crossing scars, pointed at
the captives and growled. The guards seized them and dragged them out
into the meadow where the army had camped, pushing through the mass
of thronging soldiers who formed a solid wall around some object which
held their attention.
   Toli and Quentin were pushed through the assembled host and thrown
down at the edge of a wide ring formed by the shields of the soldiers. In
the center of the ring stood two horses, one facing east and the other west.
Between the horses lay a tangle of ropes and two heavy yokelike objects.
At the farther side of the ring stood the warlord’s black steed tossing his
head and jerking the arm of the soldier holding his bridle.
   As Toli watched, a ripple coursed through the ranks at the edge of the
ring, and a wide avenue opened through which came a man wearing a
breastplate of bronze and a helmet of bronze which had two great plumes
like wings affixed to its crest. A cloak was clasped at one shoulder,
beneath which protruded the thin blade of his cruelly curved sword. Toli
had no doubt that he was seeing the warlord.
   The warlord approached his courser and paused momentarily while two
of his men dashed forward and flung themselves at his feet. One lay
prostrate and the other crouched next to him on hands and knees. The
warlord proceeded to climb to his saddle upon the bodies of his men. He
then raised his hand in signal.
   Toli swallowed hard, inwardly shuddering. He cast one last look at
Quentin, unconscious on the ground beside him. “Stay asleep, Kenta,” he
whispered to himself, “and fear nothing. I will go before you.”
   But it was not to be. Two soldiers came forward at the warlord’s signal;
one carried a gourd full of water. They rolled Quentin over on his back
none too gently; a moan escaped his lips. Toli struggled against his bond
and was struck on the head by a guard behind him
   The soldier with the gourd knelt over Quentin and placed the vessel
against his nose and poured.
   “You will drown him!” shouted Toli, receiving another blow on the
head for his trouble. He lunged at the soldier and was kicked in the ribs.
   Quentin coughed violently and choked. Water spouted from his mouth
and nostrils, and he awoke sputtering. His eyelids flickered, and he turned
cloudy eyes upon Toli who now knelt over him. “My friend...” Quentin
gasped, “I am sorry.”
   Quentin seemed to know what was about to happen.
   Both prisoners were jerked to their feet; Quentin was made to stand
supported between two scowling soldiers, one of whom grasped a handful
of hair in order to keep the captive’s head erect.
   The warlord gave a second signal, and there was a sudden scuffle behind
the two captives. A third prisoner was flung forward into the ring. He was
a soldier, bound hand and foot as Quentin and Toli were. “One of the
sentries of last night,” whispered Toli. He guessed the warlord would
make him the first victim.
   The man’s face was gray, he trembled all over. Sweat soaked his hair
and ran down his face—a hideous mass of ugly purple welts, for the man
had already received a sound beating. The luckless trooper was quickly
wrenched to his feet by two other guards who then stripped him naked,
cutting away his clothing with their knives. The soldiers looking on
laughed.
   The unfortunate was marched to the center of the ring, where the giant
with the broadaxe waited between the two horses. He was pushed down to
the ground where he writhed in anguish as his arms and legs were securely
tied to the heavy wooden yokes. Then, upon signal, the two horses,
harnessed to the yokes, were led slowly away in opposite directions.
   The ropes pulled taut. The giant stepped into place over his prey. The
victim was lifted off the ground to hang in agony while his body stretched
by slow degrees. The horses leaned into harness and the man screamed
terribly. The awful popping sound of joints and ligaments giving way
seemed to fill the ring. As the victim screamed his last, the giant, quick as
lightning, spun the broadaxe in a flashing circle about his head and with
one hand brought the blade down with a mighty stroke.
   The jolt of the blow almost felled the horses, who stumbled to their
knees as the ropes suddenly went slack. The poor wretch was hewn neatly
in half as the host wildly clamored their approval, rattling their weapons
and cheering.
   Toli glanced fearfully at Quentin, who stared emptily at the horrible
spectacle; though his master’s eyes were open, Toli could not tell if they
saw what had been played out before them. His look was vague and
faraway.
   The warlord ordered the corpse to be removed from the yokes and then
led his steed across the ring to where Toli and Quentin waited. Toli gritted
his teeth and stared stubbornly ahead. The warlord glared down at his
prisoners for a moment. He spoke something in an unintelligible tongue.
Toli raised his eyes, snapping with defiance, and for a brief instant their
gazes met. The warlord grasped his reins and struck down at Toli and
slashed him across the face—once, twice, three times.
   Blood spurted from a gash over his eye and ran down his face. The
warlord barked at him and shot a quick glance at Quentin, who still
seemed not to know what was happening around him. Then the warrior
chief swung his mount around and trotted back to the center of the ring.
   He looked slowly around the entire circle of faces in his army and then
spat out a short speech to them which, from the somber mood which
suddenly fell upon the host, Toli guessed to be on the order of an official
reprimand. When he finished the warlord nodded and soldiers began
readjusting the yokes and harness. Toli believed the moment to be his last.
He closed his eyes and sent aloft a prayer for strength and dignity in his
moment of trial.
   Across the ring a blast of a horn sounded. Toli opened his eyes to the far
hills and trees, intent that his last memory should not be of his executioner
or the grotesque corpse lying in two pieces beside the wicked blade. He
felt a twinge of regret that he would not be able to comfort his master in
his last moment, nor even say his leave as a man would, but he doubted
whether Quentin would know or understand anyway.
   The soldiers on either side of him tightened their grasp, and suddenly he
was being dragged forward. His heart raced madly in his chest, and his
vision suddenly became remarkably acute. He saw every blade of grass
under his feet, and every leaf on every branch of nearby trees stood out in
breathtaking clarity.
   Time seemed to swell, expanding to immeasurable dimensions. He
moved step by step, wonderfully aware of each moment as it slid by; he
held it, savored it. Now be was raising his foot, taking a step—how long it
took—now the other foot swung up. There were twenty more steps to go
before reaching the axe-man, and each step seemed to last forever.
   He was conscious of the air as it filled his lungs: the taste of it, the
tingling freshness as it rushed in. He felt the sun on his neck and thought
that if he tried he could count each single ray as it touched him. How
strange, be thought, that every nerve and fiber of his being should be so
fully alive this close to death.
   Then he was struck with a horrible thought. In this heightened state, he
would be able to see the executioner’s blade as it glittered in the air in its
lazy arc. He would be able to feel each tiny fiber of muscle stretch and
pull; he would feel his bones wrenched leisurely from their sockets; he
would hear his own spine snap.
   He would see in that most hideous of moments—stretched out far, far
beyond its normal length—the cruel blade bite deep into his flesh,
cleaving bone from muscle. And be would see himself severed in half and
feel the awful rush of his organs spilling out.
   He would know his death in its most terrifying aspect. He would die not
instantly, as it would seem to those who looked on. He would die with
torturous slowness. Gradually. Bit by excruciating bit.



                         EIGHTEEN
 “YOU LOOK better this morning than you have in weeks, Sire.”
Durwin had seen the King from across the garden and had watched him
for some moments before approaching. Eskevar sat quietly on a small
stone bench amidst a riotous splash of color from the flowers of every
shade and description. Every variety of flowering plant and shrub from the
furthest ends of the realm and beyond had a place in the Dragon King’s
garden.
   A shadow vanished from the King’s brow as he looked up and saw his
physician coming toward him. “Thanks to the ministrations of my good
hermit, I think I will yet trouble this world with my existence.”
   Durwin cocked a wary eye at Eskevar. “How strangely you put it, Sire. I
would have thought that today, of all days, you would rejoice in your
improved health and put gloomy thoughts far behind you.”
   “Then little you know me, sir. I may not make merry when my—when
men of my bidding are still abroad.”
   “It is Midsummer!” said Durwin. His gaiety was a little forced; he too
felt uneasy about Quentin and Toli and the others being so long away. “I
would not wonder if they were enjoying the hospitality of one of the
happy villages by the sea.”
   Eskevar shook his head gravely. “You contrive to cheer me, but your
words fall far short of the mark, Durwin—though I thank you for the
attempt. I know too well that something is wrong in Mensandor.
Something is very wrong.”
   Durwin stepped closer to his monarch and laid a hand on his shoulder.
The King looked up into the hermit’s eyes and smiled wanly. “Sire, I, too,
feel a dread creeping over the land. Sometimes my heart flutters
unexpectedly, or a chill falls upon me as I sit in my chamber before the
fire, and I know something is loose in the land that does not love peace.
Too soon, I fear, we will face a most loathsome enemy.
   “But I also know that we stand in the light of the god’s pleasure, and no
darkness can extinguish it.”
   “I wish I had faith enough to believe in your god. I have seen too much
of religion to believe.” Eskevar sighed and rose slowly to his feet. Durwin
reached out a hand and steadied him.
   The two old friends walked the garden paths side by side in silence for a
long time; Durwin kept his hand under the King’s arm.
   “I do not think I could survive another campaign, another war,” said
Eskevar after they had walked the entire length and breadth of the garden.
   “You are tired, Sire. That is all. You have been very ill. Take your time,
and do not let such thoughts trouble you. When you have regained your
strength you will feel differently, I assure you.”
   “Perhaps.” The King grew silent again.
   The sun shone down in a friendly way, and all the garden seemed to
shout with the exuberance of life. A fountain splashed in a shady nook
near a wall covered with white morning-glories. A delicate song floated on
the perfumed air as the men strolled slowly by. They stopped to listen.
   “How sweetly your daughter sings, Sire.”
   “She cannot do else.” The King laughed gently, and the light seemed to
rise in his eyes. “She is a woman, and she is in love.”
   Seeing how his patient brightened at the thought of his daughter, Durwin
turned aside and directed their steps toward the fountain and the young
woman dressed all in white samite, glistening like a living ray of light.
   “My Lady sings most beautifully,” said Durwin when they had drawn
close. Bria, her hands busily plaiting a garland of ivy into which morning-
glories were woven, raised her head and smiled.
   “I would have thought my lords too preoccupied for a maiden’s vain
utterings,” Bria laughed. Music filled the air, and shadows raced away.
Eskevar seemed suddenly to become young once again, remembering
perhaps another whose laughter enchanted him. “Come, Father. And
Durwin, too. Sit beside me, and tell me what you two have been talking
about this morning.”
   “We will sit with you, but it is you who must tell us what occupies your
thoughts,” said Durwin.
   They sat on stone benches near the fountain; Eskevar settled next to his
lovely daughter and did not take his eyes from her. Bria began to relate the
trivial commonplaces of her day, and her excitement at the approach of the
evening’s Midsummer celebration. There was no hint in her voice of
anything but the most joyful anticipation and delight.
   How very like her mother, Durwin thought. How wise and good. Her
heart must have been filled with thoughts of Quentin and consumed with
longing for his presence in this happy time; yet she did not let on that she
felt anything but the most perfect contentment and happiness. She was
doing it for her father, he knew.
   After a little while, Durwin slipped quietly away and left his patient for
the moment in the hands of an even more skillful physician, one whose
very presence was a healing balm.
   Arriving at the road, Esme had faced a hard decision. To the north lay
Askelon and her goal; to the south, danger and the likelihood of being
captured again. But she guessed that any help which she might bring must
come out of the south, too. That was the way her protectors, Quentin and
Toli, had been heading when they encountered her. That was the way their
friends were expected to return.
   The choice had occupied her the greater part of the afternoon—ever
since leaving the oracle. And upon reaching the seaside track she was no
further decided in her mind. Very likely Quentin and Toli were dead. And
it was almost certain that their friends—whoever they were—had been
ambushed and killed, as had her own bodyguards. It seemed a futile
gesture to turn away from Askelon now; there was nothing to be gained by
wandering further afield. And yet, the words of Orphe’s daughter still
whispered in her

         But this ye do
         And this will be found:
         Your errand done
         When two are unbound.

   What else could those words mean but that Quentin and Toli— the
two— were still alive but would not remain so unless she went to free
them? If she believed the prophecy at all, it would mean that her errand
would only be accomplished in securing their release.
   It made no sense. But when, thought Esme bitterly, did the gods ever
make sense to mortals?
   So, against all reason, she had turned Riv to the south. As their shadow
deepened and lengthened in the late afternoon, they set off in search of
friends in a friendless land.
   A long night fraught with lingering chills had passed into a sullen
morning in which an angry red sun glowered upon the horizon. Esme was
up and shaking the leaves and dew from her cloak when she heard it: the
crisp jingle of horses moving on the road. It was dim and far away, but it
was a sound she knew well— the sound of men at arms moving with some
speed and purpose, their weapons and tack clinking with every step.
  She slipped from the bower that had been her bed for the night, slightly
below the road and down an incline so that it was well hidden, and crept to
the road’s edge to peer along its length. She could see no one coming, and
for a moment the sound drifted away; she wondered if she had imagined it.
But the road hereabouts ran over and around the many humps of this hilly
region, and presently the sound came again.
  She ducked away again into her leafy refuge and led Riv out and along a
route parallel to the road. They descended into a small valley and rose
again to the top of a little, tree-lined knob. From there Esme judged she
would have a clear view of the road below without fear of being seen.
  She waited. The resentful sun rose slowly, throwing off a sulky light; the
air seemed dank and stale. The sky held the feel of a storm, though not a
cloud was to be seen. Such days did often betoken ill, thought Esme, and
hoped that its end would not leave her with cause for regret.
  Into the stillness of the morning came once more the jingling refrain she
had heard before. This time it was closer and more distinct. Listening very
hard, she thought she could hear the thump of the horses’ hooves as the
party, not large, moved along. Presently Esme saw the ruddy glint of a
blade or helm as it caught the sun for a brief instant Then, jouncing into
view below her came two knights, three more following close behind.
  Though she watched them for awhile as they jogged along, Esme knew
at once that she had nothing to fear from these men. They were not of the
destroying horde she had twice encountered. And from her secret perch
she could barely make out the blazon of one knight’s shield as it hung
beside him on his horse’s flank—the twisting red dragon of the Dragon
King.
  When the company of knights had drawn even with her hiding place,
Esme urged Riv out gingerly and hastened down to meet them in the road.
One of the knights saw her streaking toward them, said something to his
companions and then broke away, galloping to intercept her. He did not
speak as he joined her, but eyed her cautiously as he conducted her to
where the others had stopped and were now waiting to receive them.
  There was an awkward moment of silence when she finally reached
them. The two foremost knights exchanged glances quickly. It was clear
they did not know what to make of her, a young lady riding out of the hills
alone.
   “I am Ronsard, Lord High Marshall of Mensandor. I am at your service,
my lady.” It was the knight whose blazon she had recognized.
   The young woman spoke up without hesitation. “I am Esme—" she
began, but was interrupted by the second knight, a man of dark aspect
whom she thought seemed somehow familiar.
   “I used to know an Esme,” he said, “though she was but a slip of a girl
and shy as a young deer.”
   “It is a common name, sir,” she said guardedly. Who was this man? She
was certain she had seen him before.
   “Of course, you are right. This Esme I knew lived away in Elsendor and
was never fond of horses, as I see you must be to ride as you do.” A
secretive smile played at the edges of the knight’s mouth. Was he laughing
at her, Esme wondered.
   “Elsendor is a realm of some size,” she said. “Perhaps you would
remember whose house it was wherein you saw the girl that bears my
name.”
   “Well I remember it,” laughed the knight. “Often it was that I found
lodging there and hospitality of a most royal kind.” He lingered on the
word royal and gave it a peculiar emphasis.
   Ronsard looked from one to the other of them curiously. “It is well that
we have naught to do but pass the time wagging our tongues. Or perhaps
there is some hidden jest which this dull head does not apprehend.”
   “Sir, if it is a jest, it is not mine,” she said, a little confused. “I am on an
errand of some importance concerning friends of yours, I think.”
   “Then, my lady, I suggest you tell us forthwith what you require of us.
We are charged with an errand of importance as well.”
   “Now, now, good Ronsard. Be not so hasty with this young lady. For
though she is but stranger to you, I think her father is not.”
   “You— you know my father?” She peered at him closely. “Your words
addle me sir. But there is something about you which seems not altogether
unfamiliar.”
   “Yes,” said Ronsard growing impatient. “If you think you know
something then out with it!”
   “Very well,” sighed Theido. “It may be that I am indeed mistaken. Yes,
I certainly I am. For any of King Troen’s offspring would know one whom
they called Uncle.”
   The young lady’s dark eyes opened wide in disbelief. Her head shook
dubiously, wagging the sleek braid at the back of her head. “Theido?” A
look of happy relief flooded her face as she saw the dark stranger throw
back his head and laugh deeply.
   Ronsard clucked his tongue and rolled his eyes. “What a meeting is this.
It is not to be believed.”
   “Believe it, Ronsard. Allow me to present Princess Esme of Elsendor.
Far from home she may be, but far from friendless she is.”
   “Theido! I do not believe it either, sir,” she said to Ronsard. “Upon my
word, he is the last man I would have expected to meet this day.”
   “Well might I say the same of you, Lady Esme. You see, Ronsard, I
spent much time in the halls of King Troen when that craven Jaspin seized
my lands. I was made an outlaw in my own country, but Queen Besmir
took me in, though her husband was away in the wars with Eskevar.”
   “However did you know me? I scarce but recognize you.”
   “You have much of your mother’s look about you, and much of your
father’s boldness. The name Esme is not so widely used as you would
have us believe. When I saw you, I knew there could only be one.”
   The other knights murmured their surprise. Ronsard turned to them and
said, “Why do you wonder at this, sirs? You well know that Theido is kith
to every family in the realm, be they plowman or prince.”
   They all laughed, including Theido who said, “Friends I have many, and
it is true few men in Mensandor have not heard of Theido—though that is
more my father’s doing than my own.
   “But let us be once more on our way. Join us, my Lady, and tell us of
your errand while we ride. We are for Askelon at once.”
   “That suits, me well—”
   “I believe you spoke just now of friends of ours? What news would you
bring us of them?” The party started off again.
   “Dreadful news, sir. I wish it were not mine to tell. If you be friend to
one called Quentin and his servant friend Toli, then you must prepare for
the worst.” She glanced fearfully at her two companions. Their faces
clouded with worry when she pronounced the names.
   “I see I am right.”
   “You are. Tell us then what you know.”
  “We were riding in search of you, my lords, traveling by night. We saw
a fire—they said it was Diem, burning—and we rode to give aid. We were
met by a fierce enemy, and Quentin and Toli were taken. I escaped.”
  Tight lines appeared around Theido’s mouth, and Ronsard’s jaw bulged.
“I marvel at your fortune,” said Ronsard. “And more at the directness of
your speech.”
  “My father has often said that bitter news does not grow sweeter on the
tongue, and ‘twere better said quickly. If I thought that you would have
been offended by my manner, I would have spared you.”
  “Nay, spare us not. But tell us if we may hope for them.”
  “Yesterday I thought not, but I chanced to meet an oracle by a pool. She
gave me reason to hope, and reason to try to find you.”
  “An oracle, you say?” Theido shrugged his shoulders. “Where need is
great any hand will serve, I guess. But we must not linger one moment
longer; I fear my idle jesting has caused too much delay already. We will
pick up the trail at Diem. We will have to wait for the rest of your story,
my Lady. I do not wonder but that it is most remarkable.”
  “We ride for Diem!” shouted Ronsard to his knights. Reins snapped and
spurs bit into flanks, and the horses raced off into the hills toward the
burned and blackened ring that had once been Diem.



                        NINETEEN
  EVENING LIGHT lingered golden in the trees as Durwin stood out on
the great bartizan overlooking the King’s magnificent garden, now ablaze
with a thousand lanterns. The music of the assembled minstrels floated
over all, a delicate tapestry of melody woven as if from the petals of
summer flowers.
  Nervous young men escorted radiant young ladies along the garden
paths. Children frolicked among leafy bowers, their laughter clean and
clear, sounding like music played on silver instruments. Fine lords and
ladies in gay costume moved gracefully among blue-and-yellow striped
pavilions wherein danties were served. The Midsummer celebration at
Askelon Castle was a feast for the senses, thought Durwin, sniffing the
fragrant flower-scented air. A thing of rare beauty.
  “Why so heavy-hearted, good hermit?” The voice was as light as the
breeze which gently lifted the leaves in the garden. Durwin turned and
bowed to his Queen.
  “My Lady, your eyes are as sharp as they are beautiful,” he sighed.
  “What can trouble your thoughts on an evening such as this? It is the
night when all good things are dreamed—and you know that dreams may
sometimes come true.”
  “I wonder. Good does often seem so fragile against evil, the light so
powerless against the darkness....” His voice trailed off without finishing
the thought.
  “That is not the Durwin I know. You sound as if you have been taking
the King’s counsel.”
  “Ah, so it is! How fickle a man’s mind, ever prey to his emotions. A
weathercock for whatever winds may blow.” He laughed suddenly,
recovering something of the mirth lacking before. “Yes, yes. How silly I
am. What good is a physician who does not take his own cure?”
  Alinea smoothly linked her arm in his and turned him toward the
sweeping steps to the garden below. “Walk with me, kind friend. For I,
too, have need of some good word.” A shadow moved across her lovely
face. Durwin felt it like a pang.
  “If words can help, then rely on it that I will say them.”
  “I have been troubled today myself. A subtle unease disquiets my
inmost soul, and most illusive it is. No cause seems readily apparent.
Often I discover myself to be thinking of Quentin.”
  “I would calm you if I could, but these are not the words for it. I, too,
have been thinking of Quentin this day—and of little else. When you came
to me just now I was thinking again of him, and of Toli, though even then
I did not know it”
  “Do you think they may be in some trouble? It seems silly, I know—”
  “Not at all, my Lady, not at all. The Most High does often join our
hearts with our loved ones in times of distress as well as joy. I have been
praying for them all this day, though my prayers are uninformed.”
  “I would that I had the knowledge of the Most High that you possess.
Then I would not feel so disposed to the foolishness of a woman’s fears.”
  “But you have something which does serve as well. You have the ability
to believe without the need for reasons, or for great signs and wonders.
Yours is a faith to endure.”
  “And yours?”
  “Mine will endure, but it is born of years of struggling and vain striving.
I have come to my belief over a most circuitous and rocky path, and I
cannot say which is the better. I think the god gives each soul what it
requires, and there is the difference.”
  “Still, I would know more of what you have learned in your quest. It
cannot hurt to be informed.”
  “Aye, my Lady. You speak aright. I will gladly teach you what little I
know. But do not be surprised if in your heart you already know the truth
of what I would instruct. It is often thus.”
  They were silent as they reached the last step and entered the festive
world of the Midsummer revelers. Alinea turned and looked earnestly into
Durwin’s broad and weathered face. “What can be done for Quentin and
Toli?”
  “Nothing that has not already been done. Pray. It is no little thing.”
  “Let me come to you when the celebration is over. We will pray
together. If one heart alone may have effect, then two will speed the
remedy. And your sure prayers will guide my own more directly to the
mark.”
  “As you wish, my Queen. I will await you.”
  Just then the blast of trumpets rang out above them from the bartizan
they had just quitted. They turned to see the King’s pages, their long
trumpets in hand, snap to attention. Then King Eskevar himself was
leaning on the stone balustrade looking down upon the merrymaking.
Silence descended slowly over the garden as all eyes turned toward him.
Even the giggling children grew quiet as they sensed something important
was about to happen, though they regarded it as more of an interruption in
their fun than an occasion of state. Their elders exchanged puzzled
glances—it was not usual for the King to address his guests like this. But
all waited to hear what he had to say.
  “Citizens of Mensandor, my friends. I will not keep you long from your
merrymaking, and I will join you soon. But I would tell you some things
which have been on your King’s heart of late.”
  There was a murmur of concern: some for the words, and some for the
appearance of the King, whose haggard features were not at all disguised
by his festive apparel.
   “What I am about to tell you may cause you some concern. Please know
that it is not my intention to worry you, nor cause you needless alarm.”
   “What is he doing?” whispered Durwin.
   “I do not know.” Queen Alinea shook her head. A line of concern
appeared on her brow. “He discussed nothing like this with me.”
   “But as your King,” Eskevar continued, his solemn tones descending
like a leaden rain into the garden”, “I would be less than just if knowing of
danger to our realm I did not at once warn my people to look to their
safety.”
   Now there was a general clamor and a voice called out, “This is a poor
jest for Midsummer!” Another said, “Let the King speak! I would hear
him out in peace!”
   “It is no jest, my loyal friends. But my heart can no longer abide
rejoicing while across fair Mensandor the wild, angry clouds of war are
gathering.” He held up a hand to silence the outburst which followed this
revelation. “Even now my marshalls scour the land to bring me word of
our enemy, that we might know his strength and so arm against him. We
shall fight for our land against any foe, and we shall win!”
   The King’s voice had risen to a rant; he sounded like a madman, though
his words were sane enough. A stunned silence fell upon the Midsummer
revelers. Eskevar seemed to come to himself again and realized what he
had done. His hand trembled slightly as he said, “Return now to your
pleasure. It may be the last we will know for many dark days.” He turned
and walked away from the balustrade and disappeared into the castle,
leaving his guests to mumble in confused alarm.
   “What can he mean by this? Oh, Durwin...” Alinea turned to the hermit,
eyes filling with tears. “Is he... ?”
   “No, no. Do not be alarmed. He is as sane as you or I, perhaps the more.
I believe that his great heart feels more deeply for this land than any other
person’s. Somehow it is part of him; when it hurts, he hurts. I am certain
that I am telling you nothing you do not already know.”
   “That may be, but it is good to hear another say it. I have long known
but to be unable to enter into gaiety when there is any un-happiness that he
may cure. But he has never taken to this extreme.”
  “Pray that I am wrong, my Lady. But it may be that we will have cause
ere long to look upon Eskevar’s ill-timed warning as the act of a most
brave and noble soul. I think he senses something that is not yet apparent
to us. I fear we will share his forebodings too soon.”
  “You will excuse me, Durwin. I must hurry to attend him just now. He
will be wroth with himself for his outburst. He will want a cool hand to
soothe his brow.”
  Durwin bowed, and the beautiful Alinea hurried away with a rustle of
her silken skirts. He turned and saw that all eyes had been upon the Queen
in the moments following Eskevar’s strange address. Durwin smiled as
broadly as he knew how, held up his hands and shouted, with as much
cheer as he could command, “Friends, let us enjoy our celebration! There
may be trouble enough to come—so be it! But it is a good day, and we
may have need of such joy ere long. So let us fill our hearts with happiness
and let care belong to the morrow!”
  His hand flourished in the air and, as if waiting for his cue, the music
swelled and filled the garden as the minstrels began to play once more.
The children, sensing the momentary ban on their fun had been lifted,
burst forth with pent-up high spirits, and their laughter sounded from
every corner. In a short while the garden was transformed into a scene of
mirth and merriment. The ominous cloud, so sudden and unexpected in its
appearance, had just as suddenly passed.
  Night came on like a dream. Quentin had some vague recollection of a
day that seemed to stretch out forever without end. He and Toli had been
thrown into the back of one of the wagons to wonder at their fate. There
was not a heartbeat throughout the interminable day that he did not relive
the horror of their sunrise ordeal.
  He had been pulled across the execution ring at the signal of the
warlord. Halfway to the bloody spot he had seen the death-man turn away.
He looked around as the warlord was riding through the scattering throng
of his soldiers; the ring was melting away. Suddenly he understood that
the warlord’s order had been one of dismissal. The executions were over.
For some reason, which he would not know until later, he and Toli had
been spared. Relief, however, was slow in coming as he watched the giant
axe-man walk away rubbing the cruel head of his broadaxe with shreds of
the dead man’s clothes.
  Shortly after the wagon had begun to rumble and jostle away Quentin
had slumped into a deep sleep, broken only by Toli’s persistent nudging
and admonitions to eat. They had, by some chance, been bundled into a
wagon bearing provisions taken from Diem. Toli, after managing to loosen
his bonds somewhat, had gathered a few foods for them. He was adamant
that Quentin eat and regain some small part of his strength for whatever
lay ahead.
  After a meal of dry grain, strong goat cheese, and hard bread, Quentin
had fallen asleep again. It was nearly sunset on Midsummer's Day before
he stirred.
  “You have decided to remain a little longer in this world?” Toli asked as
his eyes opened. They were now sitting amidst a careless jumble of food
stores in the half-light of the covered wagon.
  “We have stopped!” Quentin struggled to sit up, but hot knives rubbed
into his shoulder and arm. He ached all over. “Ow!”
  “Rest while you may, Kenta. Yes, we stopped some time ago. I think
they are making camp for the night. Soon they will come for provisions.”
  “What will happen to us then, I wonder?” He shook his head as he
looked across at his ever-resourceful servant. “I thought you were dead.
You should have escaped while you could.”
  Toli smiled brightly back at him. “You know that was impossible. There
could be no escape without my Kenta. It is fiyansh—unthinkable.”
  “Well, we may both pay with our lives tomorrow, but I am glad you are
here with me, Toli. At least Esme escaped.”
  “Yes,” Toli said flatly, and Quentin felt as if he had touched an open
wound.
  “I thought—ahh!” Quentin’s face contorted into a grimace.
  “Is there much pain?”
  “It comes and goes. I feel as if my bones had been taken out, tumbled
together and replaced one at a time whichever came to hand.”
  “I feared you dead when I saw you lashed to the wagon wheel.” He
smiled again, and Quentin wondered how he could be cheerful at such a
time. “But you were displaying more wisdom and restraint than you
usually do. I should have had us free and away from here if not for that
wretch of a guard.”
  “His life was forfeit for his error.” Quentin paused, thinking again of the
hideous spectacle he had witnessed, and only narrowly avoided taking part
in. “Perhaps it was only meant to be a warning to us; perhaps he did not
intend to put us to death—just yet anyway.”
   “What is important now is that we have time to try again to escape.
Tonight will be an excellent opportunity.”
   “Tonight?”
   Toli nodded. “Midsummer—they will occupy themselves with their
revelry. The watch will be relaxed and inattentive. We may have a
chance.”
   Quentin’s head ached remembering their previous attempt at escape. He
seemed to remember something else about Midsummer, something which
stirred a brief flutter of pleasure, but it faded even as he struggled to grasp
it. “Midsummer. Do you think these...”—he did not know what to call
them—”these barbarians mark such occasions?”
   “There is a fair chance, I would say. Even the Jher observe the Day of
the Long Sun. It is so with most peoples; these would be no different.”
   “Who are they? Why have they come to Mensandor?”
   Before they could ponder the question further, two soldiers appeared at
the back of the wagon and pulled out the gateboard. The prisoners were
yanked out of their nest and each one dragged to a wheel and there lashed
securely in place, arms outstretched, legs straight out in front of them and
bound to the knee. They could not move, except to turn their heads and
look at one another helplessly.
   The two guards then took up a position close by to enable a tight watch
to be kept on their charges. The guards sat a little way off upon a log and
stared at them with cool malevolence. It was plain that neither of the
guards relished the duty; possibly it was too risky, considering what had
happened to one of their own that very morning.
   With both soldiers watching them so closely, Quentin decided that no
movements to free themselves could take place; so he ignored the guards
and tried to make sense out of the frantic activity taking place around
them.
   The army had chosen a flat lea overlooked by a long, low bluff of
poplars and beeches on which to camp. Soldiers were busily dragging
fallen trees down from the bluff and pitching them into a great heap in the
center of the meadow. Small fires for cooking had already been lit, and the
silvery smoke hung in the unmoving evening air. Other soldiers led horses
away to a stream somewhere out of sight. Twice Quentin caught a glimpse
of the warlord as he rode through the camp directing the work of his men.
He did not so much as glance toward his prisoners.
  Soon the bustle throughout the camp decreased as the smell of cooking
food wafted from the fires. Soldiers grouped around the fires in tight knots
which slowly broke apart into smaller groups. The men sat on the ground
with trenchers of wood and dipped their hands into their meal Quentin and
Toli could hear their smacking lips and noisy slurping as they licked their
platters.
  Quentin decided to try to count the number of soldiers in the party.
There were twenty cooking fires scattered across the lea, and by his best
estimation each served a hundred or more men. There were more moving
about the perimeter, employed in tending horses, gathering firewood and
various other chores. In this body there were at least two thousand
soldiers, possibly many more.
  He also noted that the warlord maintained a special bodyguard of fifty or
so men who occupied themselves near his circular, dome-shaped tent.
They ate apart from the others and did none of the menial duties of the rest
of the soldiers.
  As Quentin watched, a man emerged from the tunnel-like opening of the
tent and came toward them. Even from a distance Quentin could see that
there was something different about the man; he was vaguely unlike the
other soldiers thronging the wide meadow. There was something in his
bearing, something in his appearance which set him apart.
  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.”
   “Nor am I. But it is enough, I think, to continue the chase.” Theido cast
his eyes to the sky, now radiant with the gold of the lowering sun. “We
still have a few hours of daylight; we can go far.”
   “And we will ride tonight. We should catch them before morning.”
   Without another word they walked back to where the others were now
waiting, Esme and Tarkio having been joined by the two remaining
knights. “Be assured, my Lady. Yonder wretch was never friend to us.
One of their own, most likely.” Ronsard shot a questioning glance at the
two who had, like Tarkio, been scouring the area for any signs as to the
fate of the captives. Both knights merely shook their heads from side to
side; they had seen nothing.
   “Then we ride on. The trail is an easy one to follow. We shall stop at
next water to rest the horses. Nobren and Kenby, go ahead, and then
Tarkio and Esme. Theido and I will follow.” As the others took their
mounts he said to Theido, “We must have a plan before we reach the
camp.”
   Theido offered a nod. “We will pray that something presents itself along
the way. I know not what we shall do else.”
   Two human skulls stared vacantly back at Quentin from where they
stood affixed to long poles on either side of Gurd’s low dais. The warlord
himself seemed only a slightly more animated skull. He sat unmoving, the
soft lamplight filling the hollows of his lean face with shadow. That he
was aware at all of their presence was shown by the two glinting orbs of
his black eyes.
   The warlord was seated, as were his reluctant guests, upon a cushion.
His chest was bare, for he wore a short jacket open to the waist. It was of a
very ornate pattern, brocaded in delicate figures foreign to Quentin’s eye.
But it was the man’s chest which caught and held Quentin’s attention. For
even in the glimmering light of the oil lamps he could see that it was a
mass of scars—long, jagged, nasty-looking scars. No accident or wound of
battle could have produced them in such profusion; some were obviously
more recent, for they overlaid others, and some were only freshly healed.
Quentin realized with a start that the wounds, these horrible mutilations,
were self-inflicted.
   The seneschal, now seated at the warlord’s right hand between the
prisoners and his master, clapped his hands, and slaves bearing large
bowls of food came hurrying in. Another slave set down smaller bowls
which the food-bearers proceeded to fill from the larger bowl. When this
was completed the bowls were left before the diners, and the slaves
withdrew hastily.
   The warlord picked up his bowl and fell to eating at once, without
another glance at his guests.
   The food, an unfamiliar kind of boiled grain heavily spiced with chunks
of meat in a thick sauce, was steaming hot. It tasted exotic and
otherworldly to Quentin’s uninitiated palate, and once swallowed it left a
lingering warmth on the tongue. They ate with fingers, bowls held to their
lips. Quentin contrived to balance his bowl on the inner part of his knee,
dipping with his left hand, his useless right arm cradled in his lap.
   Midway through the meal a slave appeared with a jar and began to pour
out an amber liquid into golden pannikans. These, too, were placed before
each one and the slave departed. The beverage was a wine of some kind.
Quentin savored the slight metallic tang, but it was of a kind he had never
encountered: smooth, almost thick, and wonderfully sweet. He found that
a sip banished the warm tingle on his tongue produced by the spice of the
food.
   The warlord ate two bowls greedily without looking up. When he had
finished, he lay down his bowl and placed his hands upon his knees. He
belched once and then said something very quickly. “The meal is over,”
the seneschal informed the prisoners. And though Quentin’s bowl was still
half full, he put it down and rested his hand upon his knee in imitation of
his host.
   “Lord Gurd wishes you to know that he only eats in the presence of
those he respects, and that he will only share food with those he admires.”
The emissary nodded to them, indicating that some response of like nature
was intended.
   “Who are we that he should respect or admire us, his enemies?”
   The emissary translated Quentin’s question, and the warlord chuckled
deeply and made a short reply.
   “Lord Gurd says that your spirit has ennobled you. You, fair-skinned
one, have survived the ordeal of the wheel. Had you been a coward, you
would have died. You,” he addressed Toli, “risked death to rescue your
friend. This deed has value, even though it is the act of a fool. The Lord
Gurd admires such courage. He will be sorry to kill you when the time
comes, but your blood will flow for him—as a most satisfying oblation for
his immortality. This pleases him.”
   This answer mystified and angered Quentin; he started to make a reply,
but felt Toli’s light touch on his arm. Instead he said, “Why do you invade
our land? Who are you?”
   The seneschal spoke to the warlord who smiled thinly, like a serpent. “I
informed Lord Gurd that you were honored that he should deem you
worthy for such service.” To Quentin’s sharply angry look he added, “It
would not serve to anger him just now. He would have you disemboweled
to return the food you have eaten with him.”
   “What does he want with us?” asked Toli.
   “He alone knows.”
   Gurd picked up his goblet and drank deeply of the sweet liquor. When
he had done, he rumbled a long discourse to his emissary, who interpreted.
“Lord Gurd wishes to know how far is the great city—this Askelon—and
how is it fortified and by how many soldiers it is guarded.”
   “How is it that he believes I know the answers to such questions?”
Quentin replied.
   After a brief consultation with his lord, the man replied, “Lord Gurd
knows that you have horses and therefore are not unsubstantial men. He
has seen your weapons and clothing and believes that you are of favored
rank. The fact that you attacked his soldiers, the two of you alone, tells
him you are not unfamiliar with military matters and are in fact well-
trained for such purposes.”
  Quentin hesitated. Toli’s thoughts could not be discerned.
  “If you are pondering whether to answer or not, please allow me to
remind you that Lord Gurd perceives any answers following such
reluctance to be a lie, as I have already told you. Give me your answer at
once, and he will be appeased.”
  “Askelon is a far distance from here, many leagues. And he is right to
call it a great city, for so it is. There is none like it. No host has ever
conquered Castle Askelon, and none ever will.”
  “And how many soldiers defend this place?”
  “Tell your lord Curd that the Dragon King’s army is sufficient to any
need.”
  The warlord watched this exchange closely, not entirely pleased with
Quentin’s response. But he nodded with satisfaction when his interpreter
had finished his reply. Gurd beamed at Quentin and Toli and in his thick,
incomprehensible speech addressed them both.
  “The Lord Gurd is pleased with your answers. He has decided to allow
you to live until we reach Askelon, where you will be sacrificed in order
that he might win the city more quickly. He wishes to assure you that your
blood will flow for him alone. This is a very high honor.”
  “It is an honor we would rather forgo,” Quentin said in a voice edged
with subtle sarcasm, “but perhaps we may reciprocate the distinction at
some future time.”
  The emissary smiled slyly and began to offer Quentin’s remarks to his
master, who bowed faintly and then yawned. He waved his hand toward
his servant who stood, saying, “The audience is now at an end. Bow to
him and retreat; do not show your back to him.”
  They all backed away from the warlord’s presence, through the curtain.
They crossed the tent and stepped once more outside. The evening was
deepening, and Quentin felt the atmosphere in the camp pulsing with a
barely contained excitement. The soldiers clustered together in knots, and
coarse laughter could be heard on every side. The sun was well down, and
the sky blushed crimson in the west. When the light finally disappears,
thought Quentin, these barbarians will deliver themselves to frenzy.
  As if reading his thoughts, the seneschal said, “This night there will be
wild celebration, for it is Hegnrutha—the Night of Animal Spirits.”
  “You speak our language well, sir,” said Quentin cautiously.
   A sly look came into the dark eyes. “I speak eleven languages very
well.”
   “What did you say in there?” asked Quentin as his former guards hurried
up to take them away.
   The warlord’s personal servant smiled, revealing a row of fine white
teeth that seemed to glow in the fading light. “I told him that it was an
honor you would gladly repay in kind. He was flattered.”
   “Why should you protect us?” asked Toli as the guards retied their
hands. “What is it to you if we live or die?”
   “There is no time to explain. I will come to you tonight when the chaos
is at its peak.” The emissary spun on his heel and went back into the tent.
Quentin and Toli were marched away to the wagons once more, but this
time Quentin felt as if they moved in an aura of increased respect. The
looks they received from the soldiers they passed were frankly awed to the
point of reverence. He guessed that most who were summoned to the tent
did not walk out, but they had.



                   TWENTY-ONE
   DURWIN REMAINED long enough with the guests to ease their fears
over the King’s odd behavior. He had walked about and greeted all, as if
he were king himself, and his presence seemed to calm any feelings of
disquiet created by the King’s speech. The music trilled and eddied, a
rippling river to carry away the concerns of the moment.
   The minstrel master called a cotillion, and the couples began choosing
the leaders from among the best dancers present. Durwin chose this time
to sneak quietly away, as neither Eskevar nor Alinea had returned. He was
vaguely worried that something more serious might have transpired.
   He hurried up the stone steps and fled into the castle’s gallery entrance;
the wide wooden doors were thrown open and rows of bright torches
illuminated the broad corridor. A few curious guests strolled the gallery to
marvel at the interior of Castle Askelon. Without appearing to be in haste,
Durwin nevertheless hurried along to the King’s apartment He had little
doubt he would find Eskevar there.
   Oswald was at the door when Durwin came bustling along. “Oswald, is
ail well?”
   Oswald ducked his head in a shallow bow and said, “Aye, m’lord. The
King is inside and the Queen with him. He has a messenger.’’
   Durwin’s eyebrows arched. “Who?”
   “I know not. I did not see him arrive. The warder brought him hither at
once.”
   “Very well. Let us see, then, what is afoot.”
   Oswald opened the door and went in. As Durwin made to follow the old
chamberlain, he felt a light touch on his arm.
   “Bria, I thought you were in the garden.”
   “I followed you.” Her smooth brow furrowed with worry. “What is it?”
   “A messenger has come, that is all. Wait here but a little, and I will
come and tell you all I can.”
   “No, I would go with you.” So saying, she stepped through the doorway
and pulled Durwin with her.
   “Ah, Durwin! I was about to send for you.” Eskevar sat in a great carved
chair; Alinea stood beside him with her hand on his shoulder. Both were
looking intently at the knight, bedraggled and exhausted, his clothing and
light armor grimed over with the dust of the road. The soldier stood
swaying with fatigue before them.
   “It is Martran,” Eskevar indicated with an open hand, “one of Ronsard’s
knights. He was just about to tell us his message.”
   The knight bowed and said, his voice rough from the dust he had
swallowed, “Lord Ronsard says, ‘We are continuing on our mission and
are sorry for the delay in returning to Askelon. We will come hence as
soon as we are satisfied that we have obtained that which we seek, or have
some better report to bring.’“
   “Is that all, sir knight? You may speak freely.”
   “That is all, Sire. That is my message.”
   Eskevar, his eyes displaying sad concern, stroked his chin with his hand.
   “Why did he send you with such a message, brave knight?”
   “I believe that he was worried that his long absence would cause you
alarm. Theido it was suggested a message be carried back that they might
continue their errand.”
  “Why was that—had you seen nothing to render an account?”
  “No, Sire. We saw nothing out of the ordinary. But—” He hesitated as if
unsure of his place to speak further.
  “But what, good fellow?” asked Durwin drawing closer. “Have no fear.
There is nothing you can say that will incur your King’s displeasure.
Withholding your thoughts, however, could be a mistake. Please speak
and allow us to judge.”
  “Yes, sir.” The knight bowed to Durwin. “It is this. I sensed that
something was bothering my lords. They were looking for something and
finding it not. This upset Theido greatly. He pushed a furious pace; he
wanted to ride all night on occasion. But Ronsard would not let him. They
often had words with one another over it.
  “But I saw something which puzzled me on the way back. I think that if
Theido had seen it, he would have been even more adamant in his ways.”
  “And what did you see?” Eskevar asked softly. His eyes were eagle’s
eyes as he watched the messenger.
  “One of the villages we had passed through only a day or so before was
empty when I rode back through. I thought it strange that I did not see
anyone, though I did not stop to look further into the matter.”
  “Empty?”
  “Yes, Sire. It was completely abandoned.”
  “Anything else? Anything to indicate why that should be so?”
  “Not at all. It seemed as if it had been deserted very quickly, though no
cause could I see. But, like I say, I did not stop to wonder at it. I came on.”
  “I see. Very well, Martran; you may go to your bed. You have well
earned your rest.
  “Oswald, take Sir Martran to the kitchen and feed him, and then find
him a bed in the castle where he will not be disturbed.” To the knight he
added, “Stay close about; I may wish to question you further. Now go and
take your ease.”
  Oswald led the knight away; the man reeled on his feet. “Just one more
thing, sir,” said Durwin as Oswald swung open the door. “You did not say
that you met Quentin and Toli on the road. Yet you must have passed
them at some point. They left here in search of your party a fortnight ago.”
  The knight shook his head. “I passed no one at all. And I thought that
strange as well, for until I reached Hinsenby the roads were mine alone.”
  “Thank you, Martran. Sleep well.”
  Durwin fixed a wondering look at the King. “His tale is queer indeed. I
do not know what to make of it.”
  “It is as I have said—there are strange happenings in the land. An evil
grows, but we see it not.”
  “But what has happened to Quentin?” Bria was suddenly concerned.
  “We do not know, my Lady,” answered Durwin. “But the land is great.
They may have traveled by another route.” His tone was not as reassuring
as he would have liked.
  “At any rate we will soon know,” Eskevar offered. “I propose to go
myself in search of them.” The Dragon King was on his feet, striding forth
as if he would leave at once.
  “Say not so, my Lord!” pleaded Alinea. “You have not yet recovered
enough strength to abide the saddle.”
  “Go if you would, Sire. It is your pleasure. But in going you risk
missing the return of your envoy. And where would you begin searching
for them?”
  Eskevar threw a wounded look at the hermit. “What am I to do? I cannot
remain here forever, waiting while the enemy grows stronger.”
  “No one has seen an enemy,” pointed out the Queen. Eskevar turned on
her with a growl. “You think he does not exist? He does!” He thumped his
chest. “I can feel him here. He is coming—I can feel it.”
  “All the more reason to wait. Gain your strength. The action you seek
will come soon enough if you are right.”
  King Eskevar fell back into his chair in frustration. His noble
countenance seethed with dark despair. He thrust his hands through his
hair. “Mensandor cries out for her protector, but he sits abed and quakes
with fear. Who will save us from our weakness?”
  “Leave him now,” said Alinea, taking Durwin and Bria aside. “I will
tend him. This is the duty of a wife and Queen.”
  “By your leave, my Lady. I will withdraw to my chambers. Send for me
should you need anything.” Durwin took Bria by the arm and drew her
from the room.
  “I have never seen him thus,” said Bria, her voice quivering on the edge
of tears.
  “It is a most difficult time for him, and he is not a man much
accustomed to difficulty. But worry not on it. For I saw signs of his spirit
returning. He will be the Dragon King once more.”
  The great hand closed over the small white body of the bird. There was a
flutter of tiny wings and a surprised chirp as the hand withdrew from the
cage. The dove struggled weakly, its head poking through the circle
formed by the giant thumb and forefinger. A small red-ringed eye stared in
terror at the contorted face of the mighty Nin.
  Nin the Immortal felt the swift beating of the tiny heart and the dove’s
soft warm body filling his hand. Then he squeezed. The bird squirmed and
cried out. Nin squeezed harder. The yellow beak opened wide; the tiny
head rolled to the side. Nin, whose fleets stretched the breadth of
Gerfallon, opened his hand slowly. The bundle of feathers in his hand
shivered and lay still.
  With a cry of delight, Nin the Destroyer flung the dead bird across the
room where it landed with a soft plop near the door of his chamber. A
flurry of white down floated gently to the floor to settle like snowflakes
around the lifeless body.
  As Nin sat gazing at his handiwork a chime sounded in the passageway
beyond, followed by the ludicrous sight of Uzla’s head peering around the
edge of the door.
  “Immortal One, I bring news.” The minister’s eyes strayed to the small
white lump of feathers on the floor before him.
  “Enter and speak.” Nin’s great voice rumbled.
  Uzla tiptoed quietly in and prostrated himself before his master.
  “Rise. Your god commands you. Speak, Uzla; let your voice utter
pleasing words of worship to the Eternal One.”
  “Who is like our Nin? How shall I describe his greatness? For it is more
brilliant than the shining deeds of men, and his wisdom endures forever.”
Uzla lifted his hands to his face at if to shade his eyes from the piercing
rays of the sun.
  “Your words please me. Tell me now, what is your news? Has Askelon
been taken? I am becoming impatient with this waiting. Tell me what I
wish to hear, Uzla.”
  “My news is perhaps better suited to a different time and place, Most
Noble Nin. I know not of Askelon, but may it be as you say.”
  “What, then? Tell me quickly—I grow tired of your foolishness.”
  “The commander of your fleet below Elsendor sends word of victory.
The ships of King Troen have been destroyed, and the battle on land is
begun.”
  The great hairless face split into a wide smile of satisfaction; the flesh of
his cheeks rolled away on either side like mountains forming alongside a
deep chasm. His dark baleful eyes shrank away to tiny black pits, and his
chin sank into the folds on his neck. “It is well! How many prisoners were
sacrificed to me?” The room shook with the ringing joy of the thunderous
voice.
  Uzla’s look transformed itself momentarily into one of dismay. “I know
not, Infinite Majesty. The commander did not say, but we may deduce, I
think, that it was a very great number. It is ever thus.”
  “True, true. I am pleased. I will have a feast to celebrate!”
  “May I dare to remind the Supreme Light of the Universe that it is
Hegnrutha? There is already a feast tonight; it is being prepared even
now.”
  “Ahh, yes. How suitable. Go then and bring me word when all is in
readiness. And command the slaves to ready my oil bath; I will be
anointed before the celebration begins. My subjects will fill their eyes with
my splendor tonight. It is my will for them. Hear and obey.
  Uzla fell on his face once more and then backed out of the room. His
brittle cadence could be heard moments later calling the slaves together to
prepare the fragrant oils in which to bathe their sovereign.
  Nin raised his round moon of a face and laughed; the deep notes
tumbled from his throat to reverberate to the furthest corners of the
enormous palace ship. Those who heard it shuddered. Who among them
would be asked to provide for the Immortal One’s amusement tonight?
Whoever chanced to serve that honor on the night of Hegnrutha likely
would not see another morning.



                   TWENTY-TWO
  THE TOWER of flames leapt high into the night, pouring itself into the
vast darkness above, blotting out the stars in the scarlet glow. Quentin and
Toli, tethered to the wagon’s wheels, could feel the heat of the enormous
bonfire on their faces, though they were well removed from the blaze. As
the flames soared skyward, the wild revel rose on its own wicked wings,
taking the form of a thing fevered and inflamed.
   The tumult had grown steadily through the evening hours, and now the
surrounding woods echoed with the crazed ravings of the celebrants. The
raging mass seethed about the fire in gyrations of ever increasing frenzy.
To Quentin and Toli, looking on in mute wonder, it seemed as if
something had taken control of their spirits and played them as a
maddened minstrel striking his instrument in tortured ecstasy.
   Quentin saw, in the glare thrown out by the fire, something moving in
the darkness beyond the perimeter. Through the shimmering sheets of heat
loosed by the fire he could see it lumbering slowly like a colossal beast, a
dark shape which seemed to form itself out of the darkness surrounding it.
   “Look yonder—there across the way,” he whispered to Toli. Quentin did
not know why he had bothered to whisper—their guards were not even
making a show of watching them. They had given themselves over to the
festivities of their comrades, though they still sat at their posts, longing to
join in the turmoil.
   “What is it? I cannot make it out.”
   “Wait, it is coming closer.” No sooner had Quentin finished speaking
than the creature emerged from its dark captivity into the roiling circle of
light. It loomed large in the dancing light, the glow of the flames glittering
on its hideous black skin. It was a creature of terrible beauty, awful and
tremendous; it looked a very denizen of Heoth’s forsaken underworld, a
thing distilled out of a thousand nightmares. And it came lurching out of
the forest into the midst of the celebrants, as if it had been called up from
the depths of its underworld home to reign as lord over the foul
Hegnrutha.
   At first Quentin believed it to be alive, but as the thing moved closer he
saw that it was in fact pulled along with ropes by a hundred or so of its
keepers, who clustered about its feet. At last they brought it to the fire’s
brink, where it stood with hands outstretched in a perpetual blessing or
curse.
   It was a statue—an immense carven image of a beast with the legs and
torso of a man, the head of a lion and the maw of a jackal. Two giant
curving horns swept out from either side of its head, and its mouth was
open in a snarl of rage.
  “It is their idol,” said Toli, his eyes filled with the sight before him. He
fairly shouted, for at the sight of the towering idol the frenzied scene
below had erupted in a climax of insane exuberance. The ground fairly
trembled with the pandemonium. Their two guards lumped up and began
dancing where they stood, waving their arms and screaming with
enravished abandon.
  Now more wood was being thrown around the base of the statue, and it
was being induced into the flames. As Quentin and Toli watched the
flames encircle the monstrous idol, a shadow detached itself from among
the myriad flickering projections and crept toward them along the
perimeter. In a moment, without sensing anyone was there at all, Quentin
heard a rasping whisper in his ear.
  “I am going to cut your hands free. Do not move.”
  Quentin did as instructed and felt his bonds fall away. His right arm
swung limply down; he gathered it up with his left hand and held it close
to his chest. Without waiting for further instruction, he rolled to cover
beneath the wagon.
  The three met, heads together, under the shelter of the wagon box. Toli
rubbed his wrists and asked, “Why are you doing this?”
  There was a brief flash of white in the darkness as the warlord’s
emissary smiled. “They are my captors, too. I have long planned to escape,
but if I am to survive I will need the help of those who know this country.”
He looked at both of them, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “Time is short.
We must go.”
  Away from the wagons there was little chance of discovery. There were
no sentries on this night, but there were several smaller groups of revelers
gathered around smaller fires at the edges of the camp, and others could be
heard crashing through the woods in hysterical rapture. Their screams tore
through the night, leaving little doubt in Quentin’s mind of the reality of
the animal spirits to which this night was devoted.
  The three crouching figures worked their way around the rim of the
camp, darting furtively through the mingling expanses of light and
darkness. In the trees around them, the huge elongated shadows cavorted
in grotesque mummery as the savage rites progressed unabated.
  It was slow work threading through the circle’s outer ring, but at last
they managed to reach the shelter of the wood where the shadows gathered
over them like a cloak. “I have hidden our horses just there.” The
seneschal nodded into the further darkness beyond. “I was able to retrieve
your steed—” he looked at Quentin—“but yours could not be found.”
  Toli grinned and replied, “It was not my horse—I took it from among
the others at tether.”
  Even in the dark Quentin could see their guide’s eyebrows arch upward
in surprise and his eyes shine in amused disbelief. “Then I was right about
you two after all. You are not without considerable resource yourselves. I
have chosen my partners well.”
  The air seemed cooler in the woods and they moved with increased
confidence, though the dell rang on every hand with the howls and shrieks
of the celebrants of Hegnrutha. The familiar woodland seemed now a
desolate place given to the homeless shades who wandered the nightlands.
  Quentin shivered inwardly and fought to keep pace with the others. By
the time they reached the horses, waiting patiently in a small cone-covered
draw, Quentin was panting and weak. The modicum of strength he had
been able to scrape together was nearly exhausted.
  “I know a way out of the wood, if you will follow me,” said the
emissary. “Then it is I who will follow you.”
  “Very well,” said Toli. “Lead on.”
  The two mounted quickly and wheeled their horses to the north and
away from the camp behind them. Toli cast a quick look over his shoulder
and saw Quentin hanging from the saddle with one hand, too weak to
climb onto his horse.
  “Wait!” shouted Toli, slipping from his mount. “My master, I am
sorry... I should have realized....”
  “No—I will be all right. Just help me into the saddle.”
  In the moonlight softly filling the draw Toli saw the film of sweat
glistening on Quentin’s brow. “Ride with me; I can take us both.”
  “Once we are away from here I will be all right,” insisted Quentin.
“Hurry, now. Help me into the saddle. There is no time to argue.”
  Toli caught his master’s foot and hoisted him onto the mount. He could
see that Quentin’s right arm dangled uselessly from his shoulder. Quentin
grabbed the reins with his left hand and drew his right across his lap to
tuck it beneath his cloak.
  “Let us away,” he said hoarsely.
  Toli sprang to his mount and they were off, the horses clipping over the
furze and heading into the wood. Blazer seemed none the worse for his
adventure, thought Quentin, relieved to be in his own saddle once again.
At least with Blazer he did not need two hands to ride—the horse would
anticipate the commands of his rider Quentin had only to hang on; that
was something he desperately hoped he would be able to do.
  In a moment they were in the deep wood where the thick columns of
trees broke the silver moonlight and scattered in slivers all around. Behind
them, like the voices heard in dreams, the cries of the revelers wailed on,
diminishing rapidly as distance and the thick growth of the wood cut them
off. It is a dream, Quentin imagined as he chased the elusive shapes before
him, flitting in and out of shadow and light—an awful dream that will be
forgotten upon waking. But the sting of the occasional whipping branch
and the bracing freshness of the night air on his face was only too real. He
knew this was one dream that could not be shaken off in daylight. The
nightmare was real, and it had come in force to Mensandor.



               TWENTY-THREE
  “IT IS TIME something is done,” the High Priest of Ariel said to
himself as he paced his bare cell. “It is time to act.” The thick candle
guttered in the swirls stirred up by Biorkis’ passing to and fro. A stack of
parchment scrolls teetered precariously upon the table, clustered and
rustling like autumn leaves in the breeze.
  “It is time... it is time,” he said, heaving himself through the door of his
cell and into the darkened passageway beyond. He ran through the empty
temple and passed through a side entrance used only by the priests. He
hopped across a moonlit courtyard and through a narrow portal in the wall,
then stood alone on the edge of the plateau and looked out across the silent
valley below. He turned and cast his old eyes, still sharp as blades, toward
the eastern sky.
  The moon was overhead, but in the east a star blazed brightly—more
brilliant than any of its sisters. And round the glowing star a film of light
seemed to gather, streaming out from the star’s core. The portion of the
night where that star was fixed shone with pale radiance, and wherever the
eye roamed in examination of night’s black dome it was drawn back to
that star—the Wolf Star.
   “Yes! Yes, it is time to act,” shouted Biorkis. His voice echoed back to
him from the empty courtyard and the temple colonnade beyond the wall.
He turned, fled over the jumble of rocks and swept back through the
courtyard and into the temple once more. He made his way, puffing along
on short, stout legs, to one of the temple’s many summons gongs. He
picked up the striker and, pausing one final instant for reflection, banged it
into the gong several times in quick succession.
   “That will bring them running,” he said, and he was right.
   In a moment the vestibule was filled with sleepy priests who rubbed
their eyes and groaned at the disturbance to their slumbers.
   “Fellow-priests!” Biorkis’ voice sounded loudly in their sleep-dulled
ears. He shouted on purpose to bring them fully awake. “My bed has
remained empty these two nights running; you can bear with me just this
little while. I wish to speak to you.” There were groans among the general
body of priests.
   “What is this, Biorkis? Why have you called us from our devotions?”
   “Your snoring vespers are not important,” Biorkis snapped at his
insolent questioner. “It is time to act! The star which shines without,
growing bigger with each passing night—I know now what it means.”
   “And this could not wait until morning?” The speaker was Pluell, the
under-high priest, his own assistant. He at least had the privilege, as
Biorkis had once had, of questioning the High Priest.
   “I think not. It has waited too long already. While we have blindly
contemplated its meaning at our leisure, the star has grown large, and with
it the strength of the evil it betokens. Mensandor is under siege by forces
from far countries. The world we know is trembling on the brink of
destruction.”
   There was a murmur among the priests. Pluell bent to confer with
several of his brothers. “I am surprised to hear that you are so concerned,
Biorkis. It is not like you at all. You are the one who has ever instructed us
of the folly of considering the commerce of mortal kings and their petty
concerns.
   “It does alarm me to hear you speak so now. Should we not draw aside,
you and I, and discuss this together?”
    Biorkis bridled at the suggestion. “Why, Pluell, do I sense in your tone
the shriek of ambition? Why should not our brothers hear what I have to
say?”
    The under-high priest stepped toward his mentor, placing a hand on his
arm as if he would lead him aside. “This is not the time to display such ill-
founded airs before our assembled brothers. Come aside. You are tired and
your vigil has made you somewhat—shall we say, irrational.”
    “Irrational indeed! I have never been so lucid in my long and eventful
life. But I do not understand your manner at all. Why do you look at me
so?”
    “It is late, brothers. Return to your cells and to your rest. We will no
doubt have a more fruitful discussion tomorrow.”
    Some of the priests made as if to leave; others stood hesitantly, uncertain
whether to stay or go as instructed.
    “I am High Priest!” shouted Biorkis angrily. “Have you forgotten? All
of you stay where you are and hear me! I propose to send King Eskevar
word of our discovery.”
    “Your discovery, Biorkis. You cannot expect us to endorse it, surely.”
Pluell’s voice was smooth, and there was not a trace of sleep or fatigue in
it.
    Suddenly Biorkis realized what was happening: Pluell’s overreaching
ambition, long held in check, was now released. He was making his move
to take over the High Priesthood. Biorkis trembled with rage as the
realization knifed through him. What a fool I have been, he thought. While
I have lain awake seeking an answer to the riddle of yonder star, he has
been scheming for my rod.
    “It shall not be, viper!” Biorkis shouted. His unexplained outburst
brought wondering stares from the assembled priests. “Take your hand
from me! Hear me, brothers. I am High Priest, and long have you known
me. When have I ever proposed a thing unwisely, or brought dishonor to
the god whom we serve?”
    There were doleful looks all around and much foot shuffling.
    No one ventured to speak. Pluell fumed silently at Biorkis’ right hand,
his eyes narrowed with hate.
    “Why should my suggestion of a message to the King cause such
concern for some of our brothers?” As he spoke, the High Priest gazed
about him and recognised some who must belong to Pluell’s faction. He
knew he was fighting now at a great disadvantage, but his heart warmed
with anger and his thoughts became crystalline.
   “What does anyone have to fear of my sending word to our monarch?
Unless there is a reason why they would keep all knowledge of the events
to come to themselves. Unless they would remove the High Temple from
its place as servant to the subjects of the realm.”
   Pluell laughed, but there was no mirth in his voice. “How you do go on,
Biorkis. There is nothing at all to prevent your communication with the
King if you like.”
   “Of course not. I am High Priest. A journey to Askelon is within the
authority of my sacred vows, for I will it so to be. I would grant this same
authority to any who served me in the matter.”
   “Why not go then and make the trip yourself?” Pluell hissed.
   “I? I am old, and a younger man could travel the faster. I will set my
seal to a letter to be carried by one whom I will choose.”
   “I do not think you would find any who would as eagerly cast aside their
vows as you would have them.”
   They would not violate their vows. I have already said as much—why
do you persist in this?” Biorkis felt suddenly weak and sick. Somewhere—
though Biorkis had not seen it—the crafty Pluell had turned the discourse
to his advantage. The High Priest knew he was doomed, though he could
not see how.
   “Who better than the High Priest should go and speak to a King? Let
your own lips bear your tidings.”
   “Very well,” said Biorkis angrily. “I will go. Who will come with me?”
He glared around the circle of bewildered faces.
   No one volunteered.
   “What? Will no one accompany the High Priest on this arduous journey?
I could order all of you to go!”
   “Maybe now we should come aside and talk,” suggested Pluell once
more. He seemed to glow with satisfaction.
   “I have nothing more to say to you!” Biorkis raised his rod and brought
it down with a crash upon the stone floor at his feet.
   “As you will, brother. Then I have no other choice but to inform the
priests of Ariel of the transgressions committed by the High Priest and ask
for their recommendation.”
   “What transgressions? Name them—I am not afraid. In all my life as a
priest I have ever been faithful to my vows and to the god.”
   “You force my hand. Hear then, all priests,” Pluell said, nodding to a
priest who had drawn close. The priest handed over a scroll which Pluell
took and made a great show of unrolling. In a strident, accusing voice the
under-high priest began reading off a list of imaginary crimes which
Biorkis was alleged to have committed against the temple and his vows.
The priests looking on appeared divided; some nodded their agreement of
the charges, others wore looks of astonishment and disbelief.
   When Pluell was finished he turned to Biorkis. “What do you have to
say to these indictments?”
   “Azrael take your indictments! There is no truth in them. Any who know
me can tell you that. But I do not think it matters at all what I say. You
have already made up your mind how this will end. Get on with it.”
   Pluell turned to the assembly and with his easy and unperturbed manner
said, “You have heard with your own ears that he does not deny the
charges. There is but one recommendation we can bring: Biorkis is to be
stripped of his priesthood and a new High Priest assume his duties. Biorkis
is to be cast out from among us. Are there any who would gainsay these
recommendations?”
   The room was silent as a grave. No one moved a muscle.
   The moment passed and Pluell, speaking with calm assurance in a voice
tinged with false sadness, turned to Biorkis. “I am sorry it had to end this
way. It would have been better for you to have gone away alone while you
had the chance. I would have spared you this indignity.”
   “Spare me not, foul friend! I will go at once, but hear me ere I leave, all
you priests of Ariel.” He gazed at each man, many of them close friends
who turned away from his burning stare in shame for their silence. “Evil
has this night entered this temple. It will destroy each one of you if you do
not pluck it out and cast it aside at once.”
   In response to a signal from Pluell four temple guards came forward
with torches. They took Biorkis by the arms.
   “I am going,” the High Priest shouted. “But remember my words, all of
you. The land is fallen under a shadow. Soon no place will be safe—not
even the High Temple of Ariel. If you will not follow me and do what
must be done, at least look upon the one whom you have chosen and know
him for what he is.
  “The people of the realm will seek your protection and bid the god to
defend them. You will not be able to do it, for your prayers will not be
heard.”
  “Take him away!” shouted Pluell. “He is raving again.”
  The guards moved to take Biorkis out; the great wooden doors of the
temple were already swinging open. The night air blew in among the
assembled priests as a sudden chilling reminder of Biorkis’ dire
predictions.
  The temple guards hauled their former leader down the long stone steps
of the temple and pushed him into the courtyard. Biorkis stumbled a few
steps away and then turned toward his accusers, who had spilled out upon
the steps to watch him go. The white-haired old man raised his rod of
office, which the guards had neglected to wrest from him, and said in a
voice strong as cutting steel, “The end of the age is upon us. Look to
yourselves for your salvation; the gods will not help you. This temple will
not stand!”
  So saying, he threw the rod to the ground where it burst into a thousand
pieces. Then he turned and hobbled off into the night.



                 TWENTY-FOUR
   “IF EYES AND ears do not deceive, the enemy lies encamped in yonder
wood.” Ronsard leaned heavily on the pommel of his saddle, staring down
onto the wooded plain below them, black and forbidding in the moonlight.
   “It would stand a fair wager, I will warrant,” replied Theido; he too was
tired and arched his back to stretch weary muscles. Ronsard’s knights had
dismounted and now walked to draw the stiffness from their legs. Only
Esme seemed as fresh as when they had begun so early that morning.
   “What rites require such observance?” wondered Esme as she listened to
the horrific din emanating from the wood. The raiding screams pierced the
waning night like the cries of the tortured and dying.
  “We can but guess, my Lady. But perhaps it is the better for us. We may
creep in closer while they spend themselves in their savage revel.”
  “If Quentin and Toli are down there, we will find them,” said Ronsard
resolutely. “We may as well make a start.” He tried his sword in its
scabbard; the blade slid easily, flashing a glint of silver in the moonlight.
He turned to Esme. “My Lady, if you would care to remain here until we
return for you, it would fair ease my mind.”
  “Have no fear for me, brave sir, I will do my part. Perchance you will
need what little service I can render. My arm is not as strong as yours, but
my blade is sharp as a serpent’s tooth and quicker still.”
  “As you wish; I shall not discourage you. It does seem most apparent
that you can take care of yourself. Follow then and do what I direct.”
Ronsard flicked the reins and called to his knights, “Be mounted. We will
approach the wood single-file. Keep blades and shield covered. We will
leave our horses in the wood and come to the camp on foot. If all goes
well with us, we may escape undetected.”
  “Lord Ronsard,” said one of the knights. “Someone flees the wood as
you speak. See—there. Along that gully beyond those trees.”
  “I see it!” replied Theido. “There are three of them. Do you think...?” He
looked at Ronsard hopefully.
  “It would do to find out who they are at least.” He watched the three
figures riding away from the wood with some speed; they were pale
shapes floating over the gray sea of long grass just above the black line of
a dry water-course some distance away. “I think we may meet them just
there”—he pointed with a gloved hand toward a bend where the gully
swerved around the base of a hill. “Come, let us see who it is that flees the
foul host by night.
  Quentin clung to the saddle by force of will. He felt drained and used
up. All strength had been wrung out of him in the escape. Now he let
Blazer have his head and concentrated merely on keeping himself upright
in the saddle, knowing he could not go on much longer; soon he would
have to stop and rest. But he thought if he could last until daylight, they
would be far enough away that stopping would not endanger them.
  So he clutched at the horn of his saddle and hung on as Blazer jounced
and jostled along. To his dazed mind it seemed as if he had entered a
dream in which hills and sky and woods became his pursuers, crying after
him with shrieks of rage and fury. He fled them through gray mists on a
horse that flew like the wind, but could not outpace the pursuit.
  In his waking dream he saw an army emerge from the hills above them
to come sweeping down upon their flank. The dream-knights came
thundering down to intercept them; he could see their faces hard in the
moonlight, and could feel the hot breath of the horses on his face as they
drew nearer as if by magic.
  But there was something odd about the dream. He shook his head to
clear it and looked again—the dream remained. Quentin peered intently,
forcing himself to see clearly. But again he saw the force of knights
moving down the hillside toward them.
  “Toli!” he cried, lurching in the saddle as he flung his good arm out to
his side. The Jher glanced quickly over his shoulder and dropped back to
Quentin’s side. “They have found us!” he shouted. Toli jerked his head to
where Quentin was pointing, and his startled look confirmed at once that it
was not a dream. They were being chased.
  He gave a shrill whistle which brought the seneschal around, and at once
all three riders turned their horses to the shoulder of the hill beside them.
  Blazer’s hooves bit into the soft earth and flung it skyward as his
powerful legs churned. The horse stretched its neck and fought its way up
the slope of the hill. Quentin threw himself down along the horse’s neck in
an effort to maintain his precarious balance.
  Now he could hear the hooves of the strange knights’ horses thundering
closer, and he thought he heard a shout. Bending low, he looked along
Blazer’s flank behind him and saw that two riders descended into the
shallow gully. Another leaped it and came on.
  In that moment of inattention Quentin’s mount spurted ahead and
stumbled over a rock protruding from the hill, throwing his rider sideways
as he fought to regain his feet. Quentin’s fingers, so tightly wrapped
around the pommel, were wrenched free, and he felt himself sliding
backward over the rump of his mount His injured arm flailed uselessly as
his good hand grabbed for the bridle strap. He was not quick enough.
Almost before he knew what was happening, he tumbled out of the saddle
and landed sprawling on the hillside.
  On impact the air rushed out of his lungs and the night suddenly flashed
in a blaze of brilliant stars, their scintillating rays stabbing through his
brain. He rolled over, breathless, fighting to force air back into his lungs.
He pushed himself up on one knee and threw aside his cloak which had
wrapped itself around his arm. With a shock he realized that he did not
have a sword or a poniard with which to defend himself.
   He heard someone shout and looked up the hill to see Toli wheeling
around to come after him. But it was too late. When he turned again, the
first of their pursuers came pounding up. The horse reared, and the knight
looked down on him. In the pale moonlight Quentin thought he knew the
face that sought his; there was something familiar about it, but he could
not be sure. He shook his throbbing head slowly, and he heard the whinny
of his own mount behind him.
   “Are you hurt?” said the knight towering over him. Quentin could not
believe his ears—here was a tongue he recognized. The knight leaned
down to look at him closely.
   Yes, the face seemed familiar, like one he had seen in a dream long ago.
But it was real, and it peered down on him intently, eyes shining in the
soft light.
   “Quentin? By the god’s beards! Quentin!” the knight shouted, jumping
from his horse.
   Quentin shook his head dazedly. He passed his hand in front of his eyes.
“Who is it?”
   There was a shout behind him. “Theido! Is it true?” The voice was
Toli’s and in an instant the Jher was beside him, tugging at him.
   “Theido? How...?” Quentin could speak no more. He sank back as heavy
vapors of darkness covered him, his consciousness receding swiftly. He
heard many shouts and voices close at hand and the sound of horses
galloping in. He struggled to keep his eyes open, but his lids had grown
leaden and there was no fight left in him. It seemed that he had grown
light as down, for he felt himself borne up as on a sudden gust to ride on
the wings of the wind, which now roared in his ears.



                  TWENTY-FIVE
  THE TOUCH of a cool hand on his brow brought Quentin out of the
deepest sleep he had ever known. He heard a voice somewhere above him
say, “See there! He has come back. Heoth would not have him!”
   He opened his eyes to see a ring of faces grinning down on him. Esme’s
pretty brow wrinkled in concern quickly giving place to relief.
   “There seems to be no escaping you,” remarked Quentin as he strained
to sit up. There was laughter all around, and hands reached out to clap him
on the back.
   “We knew you could not long elude us,” said Ronsard. “By Ariel, it is
good to see you.”
   “Ronsard, Theido... I must be dreaming still. How did you find us?”
   “It is no dream, young sir. You must know that if not for this young
woman”—Ronsard nodded to Esme sitting next to him— “we would have
passed by on our way to Askelon and never known you were there. And if
we hadn’t found you, you may not have escaped considering your
weakened condition.”
   “You came back,” Quentin said.
   “I had to protect my protectors, did I not?” Esme answered. Her sudden
smile seemed to warm him from within. “Besides, I had already lost one
escort, and I was determined not to lose another.” Her dark eyes suddenly
welled with tears. “Forgive me for leaving you, sir. When I saw you pulled
from your horse I wanted to help you, but I could think only of my errand.
I am sorry.”
   Toli thrust his head in among those gathered around him. The smell of
food that he brought with him reminded Quentin how hungry he was.
   “Eat, Kenta. We have already done so. We will talk while you break
fast.” Toli set a steaming bowl before him, and Quentin fell to with a
ready appetite.
   “Myrmior has been telling us of your captivity. You have much to thank
him for,” said Theido.
   “Myrmior?” The name was strange to Quentin.
   “You mean he has risked his life to bring you out of the enemy’s camp
and you do not know his name?”
   “There was not time enough for such pleasantries. We were quite busy
with staying alive. And only half-succeeding at that.”
   “This one has a strong will to survive.” The deep rolling voice was the
seneschal’s. “I am glad to know you, Lord Quentin.”
   “I am no lord, Myrmior.”
  “Better than that,” said Ronsard. “He is the King’s own son.”
  “His ward,” Quentin corrected.
  “Ward or son, I see I have chosen well the man to save. From now on,
my lords, I am at your service. It will be an insult if you do not allow me
to serve you in whatever ways you will.” Myrmior bowed low and
touched his forehead with his fingertips.
  “You have done service enough for the Dragon King. Your reward is
yours to name once we reach Askelon and King Eskevar hears how you
have rescued his own from certain death.”
  “I was looking out for myself, sir. I, too, was held against my will by the
terrible Ningaal. The risk was but a small one for me, even at that.”
Myrmior beamed at Quentin and added, “Whatever gods rule this land,
they have poured out their favor upon this one. I have never seen a man
survive the wheel, and it was that which allowed me to convince Gurd to
spare your life.
  “And you”— he turned to Toli,— “your failed attempt at rescue nearly
cost my head as well as your own. But Myrmior is nothing if not
resourceful. I turned it to advantage, though you had to endure the anguish
of seeing the guard’s execution— and fearing the imminence of your
own.”
  “It was at least less severe than the execution itself would have been,”
replied Toli.
  “How did you come to be in the company of the—what did you call
them?—the Ningaal?”
  “The name Ningaal means the Terror of Nin, his army. It is no secret
how I came to be among them, but it is a story I would rather tell to your
Dragon King.”
  “There is much that you might tell, I would wager,” Ronsard put in.
“But the sun is well up, and I think we must put as many leagues between
us and the Ningaal as may be. The Dragon King awaits in Askelon, and
we must not forget the fearful tidings we bring. There will be much to
discuss when we sit down together. For now, it is enough that we reach the
King as quickly as possible.”
  “My thoughts exactly, fair friend.”
  “Quentin cannot ride in his condition, surely. If you like I will remain
with him and come hence on the morrow when he is more able to
withstand the journey,” Esme offered.
   Ronsard pulled on his chin. “I did not think that he would be unable
to—”
   “I can ride; I am well enough.” To show he meant what he was saying,
Quentin fought to his feet where he swayed uncertainly. He took two steps
and pitched forward. Theido reached out a hand to catch him, but Quentin
collapsed on the ground.
   “It is your arm, is it? You cannot move it.”
   Quentin rose to his knees, cradling his arm. “It will be all right. It is
nothing.”
   “It is enough. Why did you not say something?” Theido bent to examine
the injured limb; it was swollen and discolored and hot to the touch.
   “Well, we can do nothing for it here, but I like not the look of it. Perhaps
Toli and Esme should remain behind with you, though I must confess I
like that even less.”
   “No one will remain behind, and my master will not ride,” said Toli."
“Ronsard, send two knights to bring me two young birches. I will fashion
a deroit for him.”
   “Excellent!” cried Ronsard. “I might have known you would have a
solution—a litter. My knights will fetch you whatever you need.”
   Despite Quentin’s protests, which grew feebler with time, the litter was
constructed after the style used by the nomadic Jher. The finished deroit
was strapped to Blazer, and before the sun had traveled an hour’s time the
party set off once more toward Askelon. Esme rode Blazer.
   Quentin fumed at being trundled off like so much baggage, but his
fussing was mostly for show. Inwardly, he was grateful to Toli for
providing him with a means to rest along the way. For despite his
assurance to Theido, Quentin was deeply worried about his arm. He could
not move it at all; in fact, he could not feel it. When he had fallen in the
underbrush on the night of their unsuccessful escape something had
snapped—he remembered it vividly—and all feeling had fled, and with it
the ability to move the limb. The arm was numb from shoulder to
fingertips.
   The weary party quitted the forest they had been traveling through all
day. The sun was lowering in a scarlet haze among flaming clouds as they
stepped out of the sheltering boughs upon the hard-packed trail which
would lead them to Askelon’s gates.
  “Tonight we will sleep in proper beds with fresh linen,” said Ronsard.
“And we will dine in the hall of the Dragon King.”
  “I would that it were with lighter hearts than our own that we came
hence,” Theido sighed. “Alas, I rue the tidings we must lay upon his
shoulders. It is a burden I would not wish on any man.”
  “There will be burden for all of us, I think,” mused Ronsard.
  Presently the travelers rounded a bend in the road and came to the edge
of a broad, shallow valley. Across the valley rose the great dome of rock
upon which stood the Castle Askelon, transformed in the gloaming into a
city of light. The long shadow stretching across the length of the valley
had not reached the foundation rock of Askelon; the castle rose out of the
purple shadow and glinted in the ruby light, a jewel with soaring spires
and towers and graceful bartizans perched upon high walls.
  “Oh, it is beautiful,” said Esme, her voice awed and breathless with
admiration. “I never dreamed...”
  “A god’s very palace! It is a wonder mortals dare intrude,” said
Myrmior. “It far outshines even its own legends.”
  Quentin, sprawled on the deroit, craned his neck around to see the
familiar shape of his beloved Askelon—a sight he never quite got used to,
and one that always moved him strangely. “Yes, it is greater than the
stories men tell of it, for what words can describe it fully?” He gazed
proudly upon the magnificent structure, rosy in the deepening blue of the
twilight sky.
  Toli, riding beside his master all the way, sat on his horse unmoved and
stared at the twinkling jewel across the fair valley.
  “What do you say, Toli? We are nearly home.”
  Toli did not look at Quentin when he answered, and when he finally
spoke his voice was faraway. “It does appear now to be as far as ever it
was when we began this journey.”
  As usual, Toli was seeing something very different than the others. And
Quentin had learned it was no use trying to find out what the Jher meant
by these mystical pronouncements.
  Ronsard, at the head of the party, urged his mount forward. The others
followed him down the gentle slope as the feathery wisps of evening mist
began rising in the cool valley. The air was still and silent, a soft sigh upon
the land. No one could have described a more perfect picture of peace as
they gazed down into the valley growing green with the crops of the
peasants, and to the east along the broad expanse of plain already falling
into dusk.
  From somewhere in the stillness a bird trilled a poignant farewell as it
winged homeward to the nest, and all at once a sadness came over the
party. To Quentin, it seemed that some final word had been spoken and he
was indeed seeing Askelon as it would never appear again.



                    TWENTY-SIX
   “YOU HAVE returned none too soon, my young man.” Durwin scowled
as he examined Quentin’s swollen arm. “It appears your arm has been
broken and has begun to set.”
   “That is good, is it not?” asked Bria anxiously. She held Quentin’s left
hand and snuggled close to him as the hermit poked and prodded
Quentin’s injured right arm. Quentin’s filthy tunic had been removed and
a soft robe draped across his chest. His arm rested on a cushion on a low
table which had been pushed up to his couch.
   “It will be all right—won’t it, Durwin?” Quentin forced himself to ask
the question he feared asking the most. Durwin ignored it and answered
Bria’s instead.
   “I feel it is not good, my Lady. Ordinarily, yes. But not this time. As it
is, the arm will never heal properly.”
   “Oh!”
   Durwin hastened to reassure them both. “But I have seen this before.
The arm will be healed...”—he paused to assess the effect his next words
would have—“but I must break it again and reset it correctly.”
   Quentin winced, and a tear formed in the corner of Bria’s eye. “It hurts
me so to see you in pain, my love,” she said.
   “There is but little pain. At first, yes, but not now. I can bear it.”
   Durwin bent once more to his examination of the arm and shoulder.
“That is what worries me, Quentin. There should be pain—a great deal of
pain. I have never known it otherwise. I fear something of greater
consequence than a broken bone is involved here. But what it is I cannot
say.”
  A knock sounded on the chamber door, and Theido stepped into the
room, “What say you, Durwin? Will our young warrior’s wing heal to fly
again?” Catching Durwin’s troubled frown he added, “If I have misspoken
I beg you pardon, sir.”
  “No, no. You are right,” Durwin blustered. “I am being a silly old man.
Of course the arm will heal. We will reset it at once.”
  “At once?” Quentin closed his eyes.
  “It would be best.”
  “After we dine, at least?” offered Theido. “In the hall the meal is being
laid. Better to face it on a full stomach, eh?”
  “There is no harm. I had forgotten you all have ridden very far. Yes,
there is to be a wonderful meal in honor of your safe return. We can attend
to our business after we have eaten.”
  “Then let us go directly,” said Theido. “I, for one, stand in need of some
rejoicing this night. There will be little enough in the days to come.”
  “Meaning what?” asked Durwin.
  “Eskevar has announced a Council of War. It begins tomorrow.”
  “So soon?”
  Theido only nodded gravely and left.
  Durwin and Bria helped Quentin to his feet and pulled the robe around
him after putting his injured arm in a sling. Then they all made their way
to the Dragon King’s Great Hall.
  The hall, shimmering in the light of a hundred golden torches, was even
larger and more splendid than Quentin remembered. It seemed as if it had
been many years since he had been in the hall. Steeped in its own kind of
emotion and majestic drama, it was his favorite place in all the castle, and
had deeply intrigued him since he had first seen it as a boy.
  A crackling fire roared in the massive hearth, and the flames shone on
the ranks of black stone columns which marched the entire length of the
hall. Long tables had been set down the center of the hall, and these
terminated at the dais where the King’s table stood. A royal blue baldachin
edged in silver and bearing the King’s blazon arched gracefully above his
table.
  The Great Hall was filled with people. Servants rushed here and there
carrying huge platters of meat—fish, fowl, venison, pork and dozens of
roasts on spits. Knights and lords, some with their falcons on their arms,
strolled with their ladies. Minstrels wandered through the crowd or played
for smaller groups upon request. Maidens with flowers in their hair flirted
coyly with passing youths. The hall was a riot of color, a meandering
current of gaiety.
  Quentin’s heart swelled within him as he beheld the splendor of the
Dragon King’s hall.
  Two servants carrying a basin came hurrying up as the three entered.
The basin was in the shape of a dragon and contained warm water scented
with roses. Quentin dipped his good hand, while Bria washed it for him
and then dried it on a soft linen cloth offered by one of the servants.
Durwin dipped his hands, and the two young servants dashed away to
offer the courtesy to other newly-arrived guests.
  As they moved into the stream of the jovial guests, trumpets sounded
from the far end of the hall.
  “Ah,” said Durwin, “we are precisely on time. Let us take our seats.”
  He moved at once to the high table, and Quentin and Bria followed. Toli
and Esme met them as they ascended the dais to find their places while
servants scurried around filling goblets of onyx with wine and ale. Esme
fairly glowed in her bejeweled gown. For once, thought Quentin, she
looked the Princess she really was.
  “This is most wonderful,” she cooed. “You are so kind, Bria, to lend me
one of your beautiful gowns. I feel like a woman again, after all those days
on the back of a horse.” The two young women laughed; Quentin and Toli
looked on smiling.
  “Toli has been showing me all over the castle, and I am much
impressed. I have long heard stories of Askelon’s wealth, but the stories
do not tell half.”
  “You are a most welcome guest, Esme,” said Bria warmly. “We must
have a talk together soon. I think we may become very good friends.”
  “I would like that. I have grown up among my brothers, and my father’s
house lacks a woman’s touch. When my business here is at an end,
perhaps I will tarry here with you.”
  “Please, I can think of nothing better.”
   “It seems our two young women are cut of the same cloth, eh Toli?”
Quentin had stepped close to his servant while the ladies chattered on
happily.
   “Our women?” Toli suddenly blushed.
   “Bria and Esme, of course. Do you think I do not see the way you look
at Esme? I saw that look once before on your silly face—the day we fished
her from the sea.”
   “It is not your arm that is ailing; it is your head. You begin talking
strangely; perhaps I should call Durwin to take you away. This atmosphere
has addled your mind.”
   “My head is whole, and my eyes are not deceived, my good friend.”
   Toli blushed again. The trumpets sounded a final call and Bria said, “Let
us all be seated. Toli and Esme, you must sit near us. I will arrange it.”
   After a bit of fuss they sat down together. Quentin looked down the
table—past the platters of meat and pastries, trenchers of pewter and
silver, baskets of breads, and tureens of vegetables—to examine the guests
who shared the high table. Ronsard, who sat with Myrmior on one side
and Theido on the other, caught his eye and waved; an instant later he was
once again deep in conversation with the lanky knight at his side. Durwin
sat to the left of Toli and on the right of the King, whose exquisitely
carved chair remained empty. The Queen’s chair, smaller but equally
handsome, was next to it and empty too.
   Quentin peeped behind the trailing baldachin, expecting the King to
emerge from behind it at any moment. But even as he did so a hush fell
over the noisy hall. The trumpets sounded a ringing flourish and in swept
King Eskevar and Queen Alinea. They moved slowly through the hall
toward the high table, stopping to offer a greeting to their guests along the
way.
   Quentin was much relieved to see that Eskevar, though grave and gaunt,
moved with a spring in his step and with head erect; the crown encircled
his head with a ring of fiery red gold. If anything, the King’s recent illness
had given him an aspect of determined strength, of invincibility.
   The royal couple moved to the dais, stopping at Quentin’s place at the
far end of the table before moving on to their own chairs. “I am glad to see
you safely under my roof again, my son.” The King placed his hands on
Quentin’s shoulders. “Let me say again that I am sorry for your hurt.”
   “It is ever my joy to sit at table with you, my Lord. And we have said
enough already of Toli’s and my trials. I am assured that my arm will be
as fit as ever in no time.”
   “That is good news, Quentin,” said Alinea. She smiled with a warmth
which made all feel welcome and at ease.
   “Come to me tonight after the games and we will sit together and talk,”
said Eskevar. Quentin was about to speak, but Alinea broke in quickly.
   “My Lord, you have forgotten that young people have more amusing
pursuits than to sit in chamber on a pleasant summer’s eve,”
   “Of course!” Eskevar laughed. “Forgive me. Yes, I had forgotten. There
will be time enough for talking. Enjoy your evening, my young friends. I
will see you on the morrow.”
   They moved off, and Bria leaned near to Quentin and whispered, “Your
first night back and I was afraid you would be my father’s captive.” Her
green eyes held his for a moment. “Oh, do not ever leave again.”
   “There is no place I would rather be than right here with you. But I think
Durwin has plans for me this night, even if Eskevar does not. You have
forgotten so quickly?”
   “My poor darling, forgive me. I am a selfish woman. I would have you
all to myself always. But may we not walk once around the garden? It is
so lovely, and I have missed you so.”
   One turn around the garden gave way to another, and then another. The
two young couples had started off together, but Quentin soon lost sight of
Toli and Esme among the winding paths.
   The air was soft and warm and full of the perfume of the flora glowing
softly in the moonlight in pale pastel hues. They had spoken of nothing
and of nonsense and had laughed at their intimate jests, but now strolled in
silence.
   “Was it very bad for you?” asked Bria suddenly, but in an abstract way
which made Quentin wonder what she meant.
   “Being captured? Yes. I hope never to endure it again.”
   “There is another kind of captivity which is terrible.”
   “And that is?”
   “Not knowing. When someone you love is far away and you cannot go
to him, be with him, when you do not know what may happen to him... I
was worried about you. I knew something horrible had happened.”
  They walked along without speaking again for a long time. Bria sighed
heavily, and Quentin murmured, “There is more on your mind, my love.
What is it? Tell me.”
  “I am ashamed of myself for thinking it,” Bria admitted reluctantly. “I
know there is going to be a war—”
  “Who has told you that?”
  “No one, and no one need tell me. I just know it. Ever since you got
back I have seen nothing but Theido’s dark looks, and Ronsard has been
sending messengers far and wide. You do not deny it, so it must be.”
  “Yes, war is a fair possibility,” agreed Quentin.
  “A fair certainty,” she corrected him. “I do not want you to go. You are
injured. You would not have to go. You could stay here with me.”
  “You know as well as I that would not be possible.”
  “Too well I know it. The women of my family have long sent their men
into battle—some have even ridden by their side. That is what makes me
so ashamed. I do not care about any of that; I only want you safe.”
  “Ah, Bria. How little I know you. You are possessed of an iron will and
a spirit that shrinks from nothing under the heavens. I do not doubt that
you could launch a thousand ships and send whole legions into battle; yet
you tremble at the thought of just one soldier going away.”
  “Yes, how little you know me if you think you are nothing more to me
than just one soldier.” She sounded hurt and angry. Quentin, disappointed
at his bungling comment, was about to make another attempt at soothing
her when Darwin’s bellow boomed out
  “There you are! I thought I would find you here in the only place lovers
may be alone respectfully. I do not blame you for wishing to put off the
ordeal at hand, but the sooner it is over the sooner healing can begin.”
  “You are right, Durwin, though I little welcome your remedy. Let us
go.” He turned to Bria to take his leave.
  “I am going, too. You may need a woman’s touch. Besides, if someone
does not watch you very closely, Durwin, you may break the wrong arm.”
  “Please!” shouted Quentin in mock horror. “It is my arm you are talking
about. Have a care!” Bria laughed, Quentin set his jaw and the three
marched off.
               TWENTY-SEVEN
   “QUENTIN, ARE you sleeping?” Toli crept to the high, wide bed on
which his master rested. Quentin opened his eyes when Toli came near.
   “No, only resting.” Both looked at his freshly bandaged arm, set with
splints of bone and wrapped in new linen. A sling of forest green—to
match his cloak—was bound around his arm which rested on his chest. “Is
it time?”
   “Yes. The council will sit within the hour. You wish me to go in your
stead?”
   “No, I feel much better. We will both go. Has everyone arrived?”
Quentin raised himself up off the bed and swung his legs over the edge.
Toli placed a hand under his arm and helped him.
   “The lords of the flatlands have not arrived, but are expected to be late.
Theirs is a far journey. But Eskevar thinks it best not to put off beginning.
   “The others are here, or will arrive shortly. Rudd, Dilg, Benniot and
Fincher, Wertwin, Ameronis and Lupollen—those I have already seen.”
   “Those are enough to ratify any decision the King might make, though I
do not believe there will be dissent.”
   “Do not be too certain of that. Mensandor has been long at peace, and
men grow soft. Some will wish to avoid conflict at any price.”
   “Then we must make them see that is impossible.” He looked at his
friend sadly. “Toli, I do not love war, you know that. But I have seen
enough to know that it has come to us whether we will or no. We have no
choice if this land is to remain free.”
   They walked from Quentin’s apartment to the round, high-domed
council chamber in the north tower, passing through the walled courtyard
where the King sometimes held vigil when weighty matters were bearing
on his mind. The courtyard was clean and fresh and the sun directly
overhead.
   As they entered the yard Theido and Ronsard, deep in discussion with
another, waved them over. “Ah, Quentin! It looks as though Durwin has
done his worst on you. How do you feel?”
   “Fit enough. He wanted to keep me abed with a potion of his, but I
declined. Time is elixir enough.”
  “Do you know Lord Wertwin?” Theido introduced the man standing
with them.
  “He has some interesting tales to tell in council,” added Ronsard.
  “Yes, your lands lie to the south of here, do they not?” inquired Quentin.
  “That is correct. Just beyond Pelgrin, above Persch.” The man smiled
warmly, and Quentin noticed he was missing a tooth in his lower jaw; but
that and his leathery, weather-beaten visage gave the lord the rugged
appearance of a tenacious fighter.
  “Sir, if you do not mind my asking, however did you come so soon? It
would take a messenger two days to reach you.”
  “Ordinarily, yes. But I was already on my way here— as I was telling
Theido and Ronsard just now.”
  Quentin did not need to ask what had prompted Lord Wertwin’s trip, but
he did note its timeliness. They talked a bit longer until a page came out
from the tower entrance across the courtyard to ask them to come in and
take their places.
  They filed into the tower and up a short flight of spiraled stairs to an
upper floor. Thin arrow loops cast a dim light in the narrow passage,
which gave out onto a great round chamber with a polished wooden floor.
Shuttered windows were thrown wide to let in the sunlight giving the
chamber an open, airy feeling, though it was hollowed out of massive
tower walls sixteen feet thick.
  In the center of the room a ring of chairs had been established, one for
each member of the council. But there were others among them, and
Quentin wondered who would occupy them. Behind each chair a
stanchion raised a banner bearing the device and blazon of each
participant. Some of the council members were already seated and behind
their chairs stood a squire or page ready to do his lord’s bidding. Other
council members stood apart with heads together and talked in low tones;
the room buzzed with the murmur of their conversation.
  Quentin found his chair, marked by his own blazon: a flaming sword
over a small dragon emblem. He smiled to himself when he saw it. The
only time he ever saw his device was when in Askelon. Next to his chair
sat Toli’s, whose device was a white stag running on a field of forest
green. He identified Ronsard’s, a mace and a flail crossed and raised in a
gauntleted hand. Theido’s was the readily recognizable black hawk with
wings outstretched. There were others he had never seen before, and
several chairs had no banners.
  In all there were fifteen chairs in the ring, but a few more stood along
the wall to be added if the need arose. One by one the remaining council
members took their places, and the room fell silent in expectation of the
King’s entrance.
  Presently a side door opening into a private chamber creaked on its iron
hinges, and Durwin stepped in without ceremony, followed by the King.
How tired he looks, thought Quentin. Not a king to inspire his nobles with
a stirring call to arms.
  Eskevar took his chair and Durwin the chair beside him, which was
unmarked by a banner. The King began at once.
  “My noble friends, thank you for coming.” He looked at each one
around the circle. “My heart is heavy with the thought of what must be
accomplished this day. I am no stranger to war and no coward. Some of
you have stood with me in many glorious campaigns, and some where
there was no glory for either side.
  “Prudent men do not seek war, for it brings nothing good. But men of
valor do not shrink from it if called to defend their homeland against a
rapacious foe.
  “Such is now the case. Mensandor is under invasion. At this moment
foreign armies are burning our cities on the southern coast. The people
there have no lords to protect them; so they flee to the hills and to the
mountains.”
  This last statement sent a ripple of surprise and outrage coursing through
the assembled nobles. Lord Lupollen, whose lands were in the north,
below Woodsend, raised his voice above the others and asked, “What
enemy is this? I have heard nothing of an invasion.”
  The King answered when all had quieted down once more. “As I bore
certain suspicions regarding such activity I sent the Lord High Marshall
and the noble Theido, a trusted friend of the crown, to discover the source
of my unease. I will let them tell you what they have found.”
  Ronsard spoke first, “My lords, with an accompaniment of four knights
Theido and I rode out, striking first to the south. We saw nothing unusual
until we reached the sea pass below Persch, where we met a band of
villagers fleeing to the north by night.
  “These villagers told us of an enemy moving northward along the coast.
They also said that Halidom had been destroyed completely. We proposed
to ride to Halidom to see with our own eyes the veracity of this report. The
villagers seemed frightened and given to exaggeration.”
  “Was Halidom destroyed?” asked one of the lords.
  “Yes, sir. There was nothing left of it but a charred spot on the earth.”
  “What? Surely you jest.”
  “Not at all, sir.” The voice was Theido’s. “It is as he said. And not only
Halidom. Diem is gone as well.”
  “But did you not see this enemy?”
  “We saw no enemy, and only one survivor of the destruction, who died
as we stood over him.”
  “This is ridiculous! You ask us to believe—” sputtered Lupollen.
  “Believe what you will, sir,” snapped Ronsard. “We say only what our
eyes have seen.”
  “I must voice my dismay at this news, Sire,” said Lord Ameronis. “It
does seem most unlikely. We have been at peace for over ten years, and it
has been far longer since an enemy dared set foot on the soil of
Mensandor. Are we to think that a raiding party has landed and terrorized
the villages? That surely can be dealt with forthrightly, and no Council of
War need stand to ratify such a move.”
  “Yes,” agreed Lord Rudd, “it sounds very like the time when the
Vrothgar came up the Lower Plinn into the Wilderlands. Once opposed,
they left readily enough.”
  Eskevar held up his hands for silence. “Please, my countrymen, if I
thought a stout body of knights would serve against this new menace, I
would have dispatched them at once. But I have reason to believe the
danger we now face is greater than that of a handful of barbarians raiding
our cattle and crops.” He nodded to Lord Wenwin.
  “Noble friends, I came here today of my own volition, meeting the
King’s courier on the road. I agree with Eskevar—there is something here
deserving more serious consideration. For the past half-month or more I
have been receiving a steady traffic of refugees into my defenses. Some
from as close as Persch and some from as faraway as Dora: villagers,
merchants, peasants. They have come begging protection and refuge from
a terrible foe which has come against them—though ‘tis true few of them
have ever seen him.” Lord Rudd loudly challenged him. “It is not so
strange an occurrence to have a few peasants stirred up over nothing at all.
That no one seems to have seen this awesome and mysterious enemy is
proof enough for me that if he exists at all, he is no more than a band of
ruffians to be crushed with a single blow.” When Rudd had finished
speaking, there were murmurs of approval and nods of agreement.
   “I have seen this enemy!” said Quentin boldly. All eyes turned toward
him. “And I can say he is no mere band of ruffians or barbarians seeking
meat and seed. Toli and I were captured at Diem on the night that town
was sacked and burned.”
   He waited for his words to sink in.
   “For two days we were held prisoner, escaping only with the help of one
of the enemy’s own officials.” He paused to measure his words carefully.
   “What we saw in that camp gave us to know that the army of Nin is no
thieving tribe of barbarians, nor raiders after spoil. The Ningaal are a
highly trained and disciplined army, and they are moving against all
Mensandor.”
   “I do not believe it!” shouted Lupollen angrily. “If such foe exists we
would know it.”
   “Obviously he is cunning beyond belief!” snapped Ameronis with cold
sarcasm.
   “Believe it!” The high-pitched, cutting tone was a woman’s. The
assembly turned in their chairs as one to see who dared invade the King’s
council chambers.
   Quentin saw Esme standing before the door to the inner chamber. She
had entered undetered and had heard what had been said.
   “Who is this woman, Sire? Send her away! The Council of War is no
place for a female.” There were other complaints of a similar nature.
   “My lords, she will be heard. I have asked her to join us, and it seems
that now we may hear her story. Continue, my Lady, but let me inform
this assembly that before them stands Princess Esme, daughter of King
Troen of Elsendor.”
   Esme, looking every inch the princess that she was, with a thin circlet of
silver on her brow and sheathed in a gown of deepest vermilion—Bria’s,
no doubt—approached the King’s chair to stand before the council. Her
dark hair hung in rings to her shoulders; her black eyes sparked with an
intense flame.
  “I have come to Askelon at the behest of my father to deliver a message
of warning and a plea for help. What I have heard this day makes me fear
for both our lands.
  “Late this spring one of my father’s ships was attacked at sea, but
managed to fight off the attacker and return to port. Troen sent to discover
who this enemy might be and ordered the commander of his personal
vessel to search out and engage the pirateer. The ship never returned, but
an answer came—for two days later, five score enemy ships were sighted
off our southern coast by a fishing boat. My father issued forth the fleet to
engage them; my brothers took command of our ships. I was dispatched
here with the warning that a very great and powerful enemy has risen and
would sieze our lands. I have also come to ask King Eskevar to send help
in our time of need.”
  Nothing was said following Esme’s account until Eskevar asked, “Have
you then nothing to say regarding these tidings?”
  They must believe her, thought Quentin, even if they do not believe my
own story. Esme had spoken with such strength and assurance.
  “As you tell it, my Lady, it makes a very convincing tale. But are we to
understand that you believe the supposed enemy within our borders is the
same that engages your father’s fleet? I find that quite unlikely.” With that
speech Ameronis gained a few more nods of assent.
  Eskevar exploded angrily. “You seem bent upon disavowing any
evidence we bring before you. Why is that, Lord Ameronis?”
  Ameronis was cool in his reply. “The realm has been at peace for many
years. I do not wish to see this hard-won peace so easily discarded. I, for
one, do not see cause for mustering troops to oppose an enemy which no
one has seen and whose intentions are inexplicable.”
  “Ah, we strike to the heart of the matter at last!” said the Dragon King.
A high color had risen to his cheeks and brow. His eyes, sunken and dark-
rimmed from his long illness, blazed brightly. He nodded to one of the
pages who disappeared into the inner chamber to reappear a moment later
with a tall stranger. The stranger, swathed in a loose-fitting blue garment
with chains of gold around his neck, entered and bowed low before the
assembled lords. His black beard bristled like the quills of a hedgehog, and
his eyes were sharp and direct.
  “I present to you Myrmior, Prime Minister to the High Suzerain of
Khai-I-Quair. He it was who made possible the escape of my ward and his
servant. Tell us what you have to say, brave sir.”
  Myrmior bowed again and touched his fingertips to his forehead. “It is
not my intention to come before you in this way, but the King has willed it
so and I obey.” He spoke smoothly, and his words had an edge which cut
at the pride of the assembled lords who glared at him.
  “I was captured four years ago when the home of my people was
brought under subjection to Nin, called the Destroyer. The High Suzerain
was beheaded like a thief in the village square after a long and bloody war
that lasted five years. I, his trusted minister, became a slave to one of
Nin’s warlords.
  “I have seen much in the years since my captivity began. Nation after
nation has fallen; the realm of the mighty have been crushed; lands have
been laid waste before Nin and his horde. Each victory makes the Ningaal
stronger and pricks their leader’s insatiable hunger for greater conquest.
He has extended his empire from Sanarrath to Pelagia, and from
Haldorland to Artasia. He will not stop until he rules the world, until all
lands are his and all men his slaves.
  “Now he has turned his eyes upon the west and the nations of the mighty
kings. If he succeeds here, as he has in every other land where he has
loosed his warlords, there will be no stopping him. He will achieve what
his evil heart contemplates: Nin will be the god before whom all men bow
and worship.”
  Myrmior’s voice had risen steadily throughout his speech, and now the
last words rang in the council chamber. No one moved or breathed. All
eyes were on this mysterious messenger of doom.
  “Do not deceive yourselves, lords of Mensandor. You cannot hide in
your castles behind your strong walls. He will search you out and destroy
you as surely as the snake catches the rat.
  “Hear my words and beware! He has turned his eyes upon your kingdom
and will have it for his own. There is nothing he cannot do and nothing he
does not dare, for his star is growing in the east and soon all men will
know the terror of his name.”
                TWENTY-EIGHT
   “THERE is naught to your discredit, Sire. You have done what a man
can do. We will try again,” Theido said soothingly.
   They all sat gloomily around a large oaken table in the King’s private
chamber. Eskevar stared dully at his hands clasped before him. He had
raged and fumed and threatened to no avail. The Council of War had
ended in a deadlock. Lords Lupollen and Ameronis openly stood against
raising an army, Wertwin and Fincher pledged their support, and the rest
were undecided.
   “I should have waited for the others to come; they could have made the
difference. I was too hasty... too hasty.”
   “No,” objected Durwin. “You did the right thing. The others will not
arrive until tomorrow or the next day. We need to move at once. Who
knows what a delay of two days might mean? Kingdoms have fallen in
less time.”
   “Meanwhile, Lupollen and Ameronis have ample time to sway the
others to their side.” Eskevar sighed, and the room seemed to grow darker.
   “They will all come around when they see the danger,” offered Ronsard.
   “But will it be too late?” wondered Theido. “I say we should send the
King’s knights out now to engage the invaders and hold them until an
army can be raised. We must not let them reach Askelon unchallenged.”
   “Noble sirs, may I offer an observation?” It was Myrmior, who had been
sitting in silence since the private council had begun. His impassioned
appeal before the council had been to no avail and he had retreated into a
sullen mood, as had most everyone else.
   “Nothing short of total strength will dismay them. Nin’s armies are well-
trained and battle-ready. And there are more of them than you know. The
force which Quentin and Toli met with was only one of four which are
within Mensandor’s borders. They are all moving toward Askelon by
various routes.”
   “Why would they?” asked Ronsard. “Why not come en masse?”
   “Nin long ago learned it was best when invading a strange land whose
strengths were unknown to move in smaller forces, thus dividing the
defense.
   “A few valiant men may stand against many given a tactical
advantage—is this not so?” Nods around the table affirmed that it was.
“But it is almost impossible to defend on four fronts at the same time. That
is what you propose to do.”
   “And with few enough knights to do it,” noted the King sourly. “Our
cause is lost before trumpet has been blown or blade drawn.”
   “Say not so, Sire. There is much we may do with the men we have. The
others will fall in line when they learn the threat is real and not imagined.”
Ronsard struck the table with his fist. He looked around to the others for
support of his view.
   “Ronsard is right,” said Durwin slowly. “There is much we may do. And
the sooner we begin, the better. It would be to our interest to—”
   Just then there came a rap on the chamber door. A sentry stepped in and
bowing low said, “Sire, there is a priest without who would speak to you
without delay. He has been told you are in council, but will not be put
off.”
   “Will he identify himself?” asked the King.
   “He is Biorkis, as he says,” offered the sentry.
   “The High Priest? Here?” Quentin looked at Toli, who only nodded
mysteriously.
   “Allow the High Priest to enter. We will admit him.”
   The door was thrown wide and an instant later Biorkis, dressed in his
coarse brown robes, swept in to stand before them, a rueful smile upon his
wrinkled, white face.
   “I see Ariel has not deserted his servant. All is as I would have wished.”
Durwin leapt up from the table, his stool crashing to the floor. “Biorkis!
Have you given up your vows at last?” The hermit dashed to his old
friend’s side and clasped him by the arms.
   The priest shook his head sadly; his white braided beard wagged from
side to side. “It seems as if I have been released from my vows whether I
would or no.” Durwin’s eyebrows arched upward. “I mean,” said the
priest, “that I have been expelled from the temple.”
   “But why? Certainly it cannot be for any but a most serious offense—
and what that would be from you I cannot imagine.”
   The former High Priest turned to the others as Durwin drew him to the
table, giving Quentin a special greeting. “It was for the most serious
offense, my lords. I have been guilty of standing in the way of gross
ambition. The charges were but trifling ones; I persisted in seeing danger
where none could be seen, in reading omens in the stars which threatened
the security of the temple.”
   Durwin nodded knowingly. “We have been cast out this day for roughly
the same reasons. But more of that later. I know that what you have come
to tell us has not been watered down by your troubles. High Priest or no,
your heart will remain steadfast once it has decided on a course.”
   “Well you remember me, Durwin. You were ever one who could read a
man’s inmost soul. Yes, I have come with a message, but seeing you all
here leads me to believe that I have come too late for my message to be of
any great service to you.”
   “Say it, by all means,” said Eskevar, “and let us judge its worth. That it
has cost you your place in the temple is no small thing, but we will speak
of that later. What would you say to us?”
   Biorkis bowed to them all; Durwin righted his stool, offered it to the
priest and went himself in search of another. When he had been seated,
Biorkis spread his hands on the table and began.
   “My lords, in my position of High Priest I worked tirelessly in the
sifting of elements to discover the destinies of men and nations. It is my
belief that religion should serve man in this way.
   “When an omen presents itself, it is studied most carefully to determine
its import and consequence. I say that to say this: an omen has arisen the
like of which has never been seen in our time. It is a star, known to all by
its common name—the Wolf Star. Unchanged since time began, it has
recently begun to wax with unaccustomed brilliance. It has grown so
quickly as not to be believed by any who have not followed its course as
closely as have I.”
   “This is the star you spoke of, is it not?” Eskevar turned toward
Myrmior, who merely dipped his head in assent.
   “I see you know of it. Then I need not tell you how curious a thing it is.
I have searched through the records of the temple. Back and back—as far
back as records have been kept—thousands of years and more.” Biorkis
smiled and inclined his white head toward Quentin.
   “This I did after your visit to me that night. Your curiosity about the star
proved to me that there was something beyond its novelty that study might
reveal.”
   Quentin answered, “As I remember, you were very gloomy in your
predictions even then. It was evil, you said, and more.”
   “Ah, that I was. Now I know I was right to believe as I did. The sacred
records of the temple reveal that such a sign is not unknown. Twice
before, long ages ago, such stars have been seen to grow in the sky. And
though the old writing is hard to discern and the meanings of the words is
now unclear, it may be said with certainty that such omens betokened the
very worst catastrophes for mankind.”
   “The end of the age!” said Durwin.
   “The end of the age,” agreed Biorkis, “In chaos and death. Destruction
such as no man nor beast can survive. Nations are swept away, kingdoms
vanish in a single hour, never to return. The face of the earth is changed
forever. Lands rise up out of the sea, and continents submerge. All that
was shall be changed in the mighty roar of the heavens rending apart. The
stars fall from their courses, and the seas rise-up. The rivers burn, and the
earth crumbles away.
   “Thus is the end of the age, and it is at hand.”
   The midnight conversation which he and Toli had had in Durwin’s
chamber when they had first come to Askelon leapt vividly to Quentin’s
mind, inspired by Biorkis’ pronouncement. Conversation continued
around the table; the voices of Ronsard, Theido, Eskevar and Durwin
sounded in his ears, but Quentin did not attend to them. They receded
further and further from him, and he heard them no more.
   It seemed to him that he now entered a waking dream.
   A dark limitless horizon stretched before him, the darkness brooding and
seething as a beast hungering and lying in wait for its prey. Quentin saw a
small bright figure laboring up a rocky slope to stand at last on the top of a
hill.
   It was a knight in armor, and as he looked more closely he saw that the
armor shone with a cold fire as if made from a single diamond; he carried
a shield which shone with a cool radiance, scattering light like a prism.
The knight faced the brooding darkness and placed his hand to the hilt of
his sword. He drew forth his sword, and it flashed with a burning white
fire.
   The knight raised his sword, and the darkness retreated before him.
Then, with a mighty heave, the knight flung the sword into the air where it
spun, throwing off tongues of fire which filled the sky. As he did so, the
knight shouted in a resounding voice, which seemed to echo in Quentin’s
ears,

         “The sword shall burn with flames of fire.
         Darkness shall die: conquered, it flees on falcon’s
       wings.”

  The talking at the table ceased. All eyes turned toward Quentin who
stood before them, shaking his head and blinking as one awaking from a
dream. The surprise in their faces, their open mouths, let Quentin know
that be had not heard those words only; he had spoken them aloud before
everyone there. The voice echoing in his ears was his own.
  “What was that he said?” someone whispered in the awestruck silence
that had fallen upon the room.
  “I—I am sorry, good sirs.” stammered Quentin. Toli peered at him
through squinted eyes. There were stares all around.
  “Where did you hear that?” demanded Durwin, jumping up.
  “I do not know, sir, I heard it just now... in a dream. I seem to have had
a dream while everyone was talking. I do not know why.”
  “I do!” Biorkis fairly shouted. “It is from the Chronicles of the Northern
Kings.”
  “Yes, it is. The Prophecy of the Priest King.” Durwin towered over
Quentin, staring down upon him, eyes sparking with a fierceness Quentin
had never seen. He squirmed uncomfortably on his stool, feeling foolish
and light-headed.
  “Tell me that you have never read that anywhere, nor heard it spoken in
your presence and I shall believe you.”
  “I tell you the truth, Durwin, I never have. The words mean nothing to
me, wherever you say they be from. I know them not.”
  “It is possible that you may have heard them in Dekra,” mused Durwin.
“But I think not. You would remember if you had.”
  “What is this?” asked Eskevar, his voice brittle with amazement.
  Theido and Ronsard merely gazed in surprise at what was happening
before them; Myrmior rubbed his hand absently over his bearded chin,
eyes narrowed to slits.
  “My Lord, it is a wonder! A most powerful sign.” Biorkis closed his
eyes. His head began to weave with the cadence, and the old priest’s voice
swelled to fill the room as he began to recite the ancient prophecy.

         “The stars shall look upon the acts of men.
         They shall bring forth signs and wonders.
         “Cities of old are still to be seen;
         the cunning work of giants,
         the skillful shaping of stone.

         “Wind is the swiftest messenger.
         The clouds shall fly free forever.
         “Thunder speaks with a mighty voice;
         the temples quake upon their foundations.
         The sacred rock shall be cloven.

         “The spear struck upon shield shall make war.
         “The eagle shall ascend on wings of strength;
         his offspring shall be honored among men.
         “Courage shall be in the warrior.

         The jewel in the ring shall sit high and broad.
         “The good man in his country shall do deeds of glory.
         The snake in his chamber shall be pierced.
         “The valor of the knight shall be strong iron;
         his name is sung in the halls of his fathers.

         “The wolf in the forest shall be craven.
         The boar in the wood is bold
         in the strength of his tusks.
         “The King shall have a throne.
         The priest shall wear a crown.
         “The sword shall burn with flames of fire.
         Darkness shall die;
         conquered, it flees on falcon’s wings.
         “The dragon under the hill shall be ancient;
         lordly, bold and unafraid.

         “The gods of high places shall be thrown down;
         theirs shall be the rage of death.
         The Most High shall suffer them no more.
         “From out of the temple he has called his servant;
          his ways shall be exalted.”



                 TWENTY-NINE
  ESME AND BRIA were waiting for them as they emerged from the
council chambers. Quentin smiled when he saw them, although he did not
feel like smiling. The two young women had become such fast friends
they were seen together everywhere, and it pleased Quentin to thunk that
though very different in many ways, they shared much in common,
especially the same iron resolve in matters that touched them deeply. They
were, he reflected, the living ideal of the word princess.
  Quentin had not spoken upon emerging from the chamber. He felt weak
and a little frightened of what he might say next. The vision and prophecy
had unnerved him, making him feel he could no longer trust himself to
behave normally. Toli had ushered them all away to a quiet spot in the
kitchen where they could sit and munch apples and be alone.
  After a while Quentin recovered some of his usual good humor and
began to talk about what had happened. He told of the talk around the
table, and of his dream, and the prophecy he had uttered, and how excited
Durwin and Biorkis had become after hearing it. It was then that Esme
related her own experience with the daughter of Orphe, and of the
prophecy that had been given her in exchange for the meal she had cooked
for the oracle.
  Esme recited the strange prophecy, and Quentin was struck with how
similar it was to the one he had himself spoken. Both spoke of a sword of
power that would vanquish the invaders with a stroke. When Esme had
finished her story they had all fallen silent for a long time, not daring to
break the spell that descended upon the little group.
  For Quentin the time of silence was welcome. He turned the words over
in his mind, sifting them, holding them as they tumbled through his
consciousness. His vision, so long ago received in his Blessing of the
Ariga at the temple in Dekra, seemed now to be taking form, unfolding
before him and pulling him along. His vision. Long had he pondered it and
held it in his heart. Part of him wanted to run to it, to embrace whatever
lay ahead, knowing that he would never know true peace unless he did.
Another part of him wanted to hold it off, to turn away from its terrible,
fierce glory. And Quentin was torn between the two.
  Quentin and Toli stood in the night-darkened passageway and knocked.
They heard a shuffle on the other side of the heavy door, and it was drawn
open slowly. Ronsard’s broad handsome face grinned back at them.
  “Enter, friends,” he said. “We have been waiting for you.”
  “What is this summons which draws us from our beds, good sirs? Or
rather, keeps us from them. Ronsard, Theido—what is this secrecy?”
Quentin stepped into the tower chamber of Durwin, made rosy by the light
of tall candles placed around the room on their tall holders.
  “You will regret those harsh words soon, sir,” said Theido quietly.
Quentin had spoken in fun, but though Theido smiled Quentin could tell
there was an uneasiness in the knight’s manner.
  “You are going away!” said Quentin in dismay. He glanced quickly at
their faces and knew that he had guessed correctly.
  “Yes,” said Ronsard gently. “Before sunrise.”
  “But—I do not understand. Why so soon?”
  “It must be,” explained Theido. “We are leading the King’s own knights
against the Ningaal. We must move at once before they have time to draw
their strength together.”
  “Come in and sit down. We have a little time to part as friends ought,”
said Durwin warmly.
  Quentin moved woodenly to a chair in front of the empty hearth. Toli
settled on the arm of the chair beside him. What the dark-eyed Jher was
feeling could not be read upon his face, though his eyes had gone hard.
  “I know it comes as a shock to you, Quentin. But this is the way it must
be.” Theido’s tone was smooth and assured. “I know you had your heart
set on coming with us, but I assume you know also that cannot be. With
your arm, you would not last the first clash of battle.”
  Quentin was mildly flattered to think that Theido had so high an
estimation of his courage. Actually, he had no wish to encounter the brutal
Ningaal again.
  That is not the cause of my misgiving, though you do me honor. You
cannot go against the Ningaal with the King’s retinue alone; it would be
disastrous! There are too many, and they are disciplined soldiers every
one. I have seen them.”
  “We dare not wait any longer,” said Ronsard. “Every day we delay may
mean much in time to come. But do not worry overmuch; we do not go
entirely alone. Lord Wertwin will meet us with his troops—he will raise a
hundred sturdy knights and arms for all.”
  “But 400 or 500—what is that against Gurd’s thousands? And he is but
one of four, if Myrmior speaks true.”
  “I think we may say that Myrmior speaks true,” laughed Ronsard. “He is
going with us. He will help us to plan our strategy against the warlords.”
  “It is no small thing,” agreed Theido. “His help shall prove invaluable, I
have no doubt of it.” He learned forward and searched Quentin’s face with
earnest dark eyes. “We must go, Quentin. We must gain time for Eskevar
to bring the other lords around.
  “We did not expect such a poor show among our peers. But that is the
way of it. They will see that war has come, and they will join us in the
end. Of that I have no fear.”
  “But in the meantime, while they are making up their minds you will all
be killed!” said Quentin bitterly. “I do not like it.”
  “This is how it will be,” said Ronsard. He stood and walked to Quentin
and put his hand upon his shoulder. “Do not fear for us, for we do not fear
for ourselves. A knight can have but one death, and that one with honor or
he is no true knight. I have seen enough of battle that it holds no terror for
me. I am content.”
  “We have no intention of moving foolishly. In truth, you will not see
two more cautious and prudent men as we. But we must give the King
time to pull the lords together, or our cause is lost before it is begun.
Myrmior has shown us that, at least.
  “Besides, I do not think you will be idle yourself. If I understand
Durwin aright, he means to employ you most strenuously. You will have
no time to think about us.”
  Quentin threw himself out of his chair and grabbed Ronsard by the arm
with his good hand. “I will always think about you! Both of you have been
more than comrades to me. I wish I could go with you and share your
portion. It would make my heart glad to stand on the field with you once
again.”
  “And so you shall. There will be enough of battle for all of us, I’ll
wager.” Theido came to stand beside a tearful Quentin.
  “I shall miss you very much. Both of you.” Quentin threw his arm
around Ronsard and clapped him on the back. Then he hugged Theido,
burying his face in the knight’s shoulder. His tears now streamed down his
face, but they were manly tears and he was not ashamed.
  “The blow that keeps me here was more hurtful than first I imagined.
Go, then, and the Most High grant you his protection.”
  “And you,” the two knights said in unison.
  They moved reluctantly toward the door. Toli, coming up behind
Quentin, shook both their hands and wished them, in his native tongue,
singing blades and shields that never fall. And turning to Durwin he said,
“Good hermit, will you say a prayer to the Most High for our brothers?”
  “Of course—I was about to suggest it myself.” The hermit of Pelgrin
came forward and raised his hands before the two knights. Ronsard sank
to one knee, and Theido knelt down beside him.
  “God Most High, who ever guides our steps and hears our prayers,” he
said softly, “hear us now. Be to these our stout companions the sharp edge
of their blade, the strength of their arm and the protection of their shield.
Show them mighty among the enemy; show them dauntless and unafraid
Go before them into battle as a lance to drive the evil from our shores. Be
to them a comfort and a guide; refresh them when they are weary, and
bear them up when they can stand no more.
  “Banish fear from their hearts, and give them wisdom to lead their men
to victory. Be to them the glory which will shine through the darkness, and
bring them home to us once more.”
  The knights rose slowly. “This god of yours, Durwin, can he do so
much?” asked Ronsard softly.
  “He can do all things, my friend. Do not fear to call upon him in any
need. He is ever quick to aid his servants.”
  “Then from now on I will serve him—this God Most High.” He grinned
at Quentin. “See, you are not the only one who listens to this prattling
hermit. I have a care for my spirit, too.”
  “Then have a care to keep it intact until we meet again, brave knight.”
Quentin advanced and offered his hand to them. “Farewell, my friends.”
  “Farewell, Quentin. Farewell”



                            THIRTY
   As TEARFUL as the parting with Theido and Ronsard had been, it was
a poor showing compared to the sorrow of Quentin and Toli’s leavetaking
from Askelon. They had spent two days following the departure of the
knights in gathering supplies and making ready. Then early, before the sun
had risen above the long dark line of Pelgrin, Toli led the horses and pack
animals out across the inner ward, through the inner curtain and into the
outer ward where Durwin and Quentin waited.
   There they had been met by Alinea, Bria and Esme. The women pressed
gifts of food into their hands and exchanged kisses all around.
   “Eskevar wished me to bid you farewell,” Alinea said. “He would have
come to see you away, but a King does not say goodbye. So, for him and
for myself, farewell. Travel swiftly and return safely. Our hearts go with
you.”
   Then Bria and Quentin had removed a little apart to speak the special
feelings between them. Esme, with flowers in her hair, took one and gave
it to Toli, who carried it over his heart beneath his baldric.
   The three women had accompanied them across the drawbridge and
stood there, tears splashing to the ground in a gentle rain, waving them
good-bye until the narrow streets of Askelon had taken them from view.
   The sadness of that parting settled heavy on Quentin’s spirit. It brooded
over his waking hours for the better part of three days following. He spoke
but little and moved about as one asleep. He did not notice that Toli, and
to some extent Durwin, behaved in exactly the same way.
   In his lonely meditation Quentin turned again and again to the events of
the hurried last days in Askelon, and especially the meeting in Durwin’s
chambers that had lasted far into the night. It now seemed shadowy and
indistinct, as if he were watching smoke trails curling and rising in the
night air. But it seemed real enough then, and it was that particular event
which was now speeding them on their way.
   As they moved through the darkened pathways of Pelgrin Forest, now
heavy with verdure, summer sitting full on every bough, Quentin
rehearsed once more the happenings of that night.
   After Theido and Ronsard left Durwin’s apartment, almost before their
footsteps had diminished in the corridor, Biorkis had swept in with an
armful of scrolls and parchments and mapskins. Since the private council
with Eskevar the day before, he had disappeared; Quentin had not seen
him since he heard the old priest recite the ancient prophecy which still
rang in his ears.
   Biorkis, they were soon to discover, had busily buried himself in the
castle’s atheneum and there, stopping neither to eat nor sleep, scratched
together the odd assemblage of material he now carried with him.
   “I have found what we need, Durwin. It was not easy—the King’s
library is not at all as orderly as the temple’s, but that is to be expected.
Some of these writings are barely discernible—even to a knowing eye—
and quite incomplete. But my memory, and yours of course, Durwin, will
serve where the parchments fail us.”
   The old priest bustled and fretted so prodigiously in getting his texts
arranged that Quentin laughed out loud. “Do not tell me we are about to
endure one of your interminable lessons! Spare us!”
   Biorkis cocked his head to one side. “Do not think that it would harm
you, sir. You have probably forgotten all I ever taught you.”
   “Biorkis and I put our heads together upon leaving the King’s council,”
Durwin explained. “I think you will be interested to bear what we have
learned.” Although Durwin did not say it, Quentin knew by the glint of the
hermit’s eye and the mood of high excitement that suddenly bristled in the
room that the subject of the meeting had something to do with the
prophecy and his strange utterance of it the day previous.
   “Yes, it is all here. Enough at any rate to allow us to act, I think, though
I wish I had access to my books at the temple.” Biorkis sighed sadly.
   “And I my own at the cottage,” agreed Durwin. “Still, I have read them
enough to know them from memory, I dare say.”
   “Are we to understand,” said Quentin indicating Toli and himself, “that
you believe this... Prophecy of the Priest King, or whatever—this has
something to do with us?”
   “Not us, sir,” said Biorkis blithely. “You!” Quentin had almost
succeeded in putting off the feeling of awesome responsibility that went
along with the thought that he might be chosen for some great task. He
had almost settled into feeling his normal self again—almost, but not
entirely. For the inexpressible notion that he was caught up in the swiftly
running stream of history, that he was moved by an unseen hand toward an
unknown destiny, and that all this had something to do with his vision of
the flaming sword—this notion haunted him, lurking behind his thoughts
like a shadow, or the lingering presence of a dream.
   “There are many signs by which these things can be judged, as you well
know,” the priest burbled on. “Let us just say that I have spent a day and a
night in sifting through all that is known about the prophecy and the
events surrounding it, and that I have no good reason to doubt that the
signs point to you.”
   “There are also very good reasons to believe that now is the time in
which this prophecy will be fulfilled,” added Durwin.
   Toli spoke up. “Though I have never heard of this prophecy—before it
was spoken in the King’s chamber, that is—the Jher, too, have a legend
that a king of the white race will arise who will usher in the age of light.
He is to be called Lotheneil, the Waymaker. That is because he will lead
men’s minds toward Winoek, the God Most High.” Toli fixed his master
with a knowing look and crossed his arms upon his chest, as if satisfied
the matter was settled.
   “Do not think that I am unwilling,” said Quentin. “But you must show
me how these things pertain to me. I know nothing of this prophecy—”
   “And yet you quoted it word for word, or nearly. In the original it goes
something like this:

          Thee sweord sceal byrnan with fyr flaume.
         Deorcin sceal dhy; deffetyn hit fleon winge falcho.

   “I should really have been surprised if you had spoken it in the old
tongue. Still, I was shocked beyond belief. There are not four men in all of
Mensandor who know and can quote that obscure prophecy. That two of
them should be in the same room together at an utterance—well, it is quite
remarkable. Incredible.”
   “I did not tell the whole prophecy, only part of it.” Quentin fidgeted in
his high-backed chair, while Toli perched like a bird of prey beside him.
“It might have been a coincidence.”
   “Quentin,” Durwin reproached softly, “you know as well as I that for the
servants of the Most High there are no coincidences. And for a prophet to
quote the merest portion of a prophecy is the same as to invoke the whole.
The Elders at Dekra should have given ample instruction in that.”
   It was true; he had often heard and understood the Elders to make
reference to various events and happenings in the sacred texts, quoting
portions of the text and implying the rest. He knew Durwin could see
through any attempt on his part to distance himself from the events which
were forming on all sides. It seemed to Quentin that a web of circumstance
was weaving itself around him, pulling tighter and tighter. Soon he would
be trapped by a destiny he had not foreseen and was not certain he could
fulfill.
   But he also felt that aside from his personal reluctance, which sat like a
lintel stone upon his back, if what Biorkis and Durwin said was true he
had a responsibility to follow wherever the trail would lead. If he did have
some part to play in saving the realm, he had to accept it and do whatever
was required, aside from how he felt about it
   It was this other, more rational Quentin who answered, “Very well. Let
us see what you two rumormongers have schemed up for us. There seems
to be no denying you.”
   “You are beginning to think beyond yourself, eh, Quentin? That is good.
Yes, very good.” Biorkis pulled on his long white braided beard. “Now
here is what I have found.”
   The hours that followed had seemed but the flicker of a candle flame. A
wink, a nod and they were gone. From the moment his old teacher had
begun to speak, Quentin was gripped in a spell of enchantment, transfixed
by the unutterable mystery of the story of strange events, long forgotten,
having passed from the minds and hearts of men long ages past. It was
remembered only by a few learned men, and now it was revived in his
presence. He listened intently, seizing every word as a thirsty man opening
his parched throat to the sky to drink in the drops of rain.
   They told of the sword, a sword unlike any other and possessed of holy
power; of secret mines beneath hidden mountains in half-remembered
lands; and of the forging of the mighty weapon upon an anvil of gold.
Biorkis and Durwin, their round faces flushed with the excitement of their
tale, spoke of the ache of the people who for generation upon generation
had waited, believing that they would see the coming of the sword and he
who would carry it. They told of the songs sung and prayers prayed in all
the dark, hopeless times for the hand worthy to possess the sword to arise
and deal deliverance at its point.
   Zhaligkeer—that was the name the ancients had given the sword. The
Shining One.
   Quentin rolled the old-sounding name on his tongue. Knowing the name
linked him to those who had lived and died waiting to see it. He wondered
how many men had breathed that name in their hour of need; he wondered
how many had despaired of ever seeing it and had given up hope and
turned away.
   When at last the story was told, Quentin rose to stretch and pace the
room in quick, restless strides. “Are you suggesting that we just go and
find this sword? That it lies hidden in some cave in the high Fiskills?”
   Biorkis shook his head wearily. “Not find it; the sword does not exist.
You must make it. Zhaligkeer must be forged of the hand that will wield
it.”
   Quentin sighed hopelessly. “I do not understand. Forgive me. What was
all that about anvils of gold and secret mines and all? I thought it was all
part of the legend.”
   “Oh, it is, it is,” said Durwin. “But it is our belief that the legends
indicate the manner in which the sword must be made, not how it was
made. I do not think that anyone ever actually made the sword.”
   “Well, why not? It does not seem at all clear why they would hesitate.
What was to stop them from trying?”
   Durwin cocked his head to one side and smiled smugly. “Nothing... and
everything. Undoubtedly many tried. They applied the prophecy to
themselves and their own times. But two things are needed for the sword
to become Zhaligkeer, the Shining One: the ore from the secret mines, and
the hand of him whom the prophecy names. Even if they had found the
ore, which perhaps some of them by some means accomplished, they still
lacked the thing that would make the sword the Zhaligkeer: the hand of
the chosen one. You see, it is not the blade alone but the hand of the Most
High which endows the sword with its power.”
  “If, as you say, men have long sought the Shining One, why have I not
heard tell of it before now?”
  “There is nothing unusual there, sir!” laughed Biorkis. “It is ever thus. In
good days men think not of the hand that helps them. But when evil days
come upon them, they cry out for the deliverer.
  In Mensandor, the years have brought prosperity and peace to the people
as often as not. Men have forgotten much of the old times when their
fathers struggled in the land. They have forgotten the sword; but for a few
the prophecy would have been lost completely.”
  Quentin brushed his good hand through his hair. His eyes burned in his
head. He was tired. The night was old, and he needed sleep.
  “I know nothing of making swords. Neither do I know the way to secret
mines in the high wastelands of the Fiskills. And even if I already
possessed such a sword, I do not know what I should do with it; I do not
even have the arm to raise it.”
  Durwin crossed the room and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “You
are tired. You should take your rest like Toli there.” Durwin nodded
toward the Jher, who had curled himself up in an empty seat and was now
sleeping soundly. “Go to bed now. We have talked enough for one night.
We will talk again tomorrow. Believe me, there is much more to discuss
before we set off.”
  Quentin believed him. There were a thousand questions flapping around
in his head like blackbirds over a new-plowed field. But he was exhausted
and could think of nothing but sleep.
  “Does anyone else know about all this... this...” Words failed him; he
could think no more.
  “No, not as yet—though Ronsard and Theido know we will be busy
while they are away. To Eskevar I have mentioned my suspicions
regarding the events before us, but he knows nothing of the sword. No one
beyond we four knows anything about what we have talked of this night.
   “Good night, Quentin. Go find your bed. We will talk again in the
morning.”
   As if on signal, Toli rose and slipped to the door to lead his master
away. In a few moments Quentin felt himself sink deeply into bed; he did
not bother to remove his clothes, but collapsed full-length upon the bed.
To Quentin it seemed as if he had plunged into a warm, silent sea. He was
asleep as the waves closed over him.
   The next day had been a blur of maps and scrolls—so dusty and brittle
with age one scarcely dared breathe on them—and dizzying conversation.
Toli, sensing that the time for riding was drawing swiftly nearer, had
begun selecting animals and provisions for the journey. Several times he
saw Durwin and Toli head to head in a corner as Toli checked some detail
of his plan with Durwin.
   Quentin wondered why he was not consulted about the preparations, but
at the same time he was glad not have to think about them. His mind had
more than enough with which to occupy itself; his head fairly throbbed
with the things he was taking in. Also, he missed Bria. He had not seen her
but for fleeting moments over hurried meals.
   He could tell that she knew he was going away soon. Her silent gazes,
her bittersweet smiles and furtive gestures told him she knew. But she did
not mention it to him; she did not cling. It was a mark of her high
character that she, as much as was humanly possible, put her own feelings
aside and tried to make his last days easier. And Quentin loved her for it.
   When he had finally mustered enough courage to face breaking the
awful announcement of their departure, Bria had placed her fingers to his
lips saying, “Do not say it. I know you must leave me now. I knew the
moment I saw you emerge from the council chamber. You have much to
do, great deeds to perform, and I will not bind your heart with promises.
   “Go, my love. And when you return you will find me waiting at the
gate. The women of my kindred are accustomed to waiting. Do not worry
after me, my darling. I will pass the time the better knowing your mind is
settled.”
   Despite his broken arm, Quentin had hugged her to him for a long time,
wondering whether he would ever see her again.
   In the haste which overtook them there was little time for brooding or
sadness—that would come later. There was simply too much to be done.
In two days they accomplished what would normally have taken a week.
  Long hours had been spent in consultation with the King. Their plan had
won his approval outright, although not without certain misgivings. With
the hills and countryside becoming harborage for the Ningaal—no one
knew precisely where they were—Eskevar was loath to allow the party to
leave without an armed escort.
  They had at last convinced him that such would only make their errand
more difficult. It would be better to pass unheralded through the world and
unencumbered by the chores of moving many men and horses overland in
secret.
  Quentin, Toli and Durwin would go. Biorkis, too old to withstand the
rigors of such a journey, would stay behind in Askelon to give aid and
counsel where he could. If battle drew near, he would be needed to attend
as physician to any wounded. Also in Durwin’s mind, though he did not
voice it aloud to anyone, was his apprehension that Eskevar, not wholly
recovered from his mysterious malady, would require competent care in
his absence. Were it not for that, Durwin would have taken his leave of the
castle with a lighter heart.
  The dark cool pathways of Pelgrin, overhung with leafy boughs which
blotted out all but the most determined of the sun’s rays, soothed
Quentin’s mind as he rode along. His sorrow gradually left him, and he
became filled with the excitement of the quest. Though it was still hard for
him to accept the fact that he seemed to have a central part in it—he felt
the same old Quentin, after all—he allowed himself to linger long in a
kind of rapture over the tale of the mighty Zhaligkeer, the Sword of Holy
Fire.



                    THIRTY-ONE
  “WHERE WILL we find a master armorer to help in forging the sword?
I do not recall your having mentioned that. Surely, you do not contemplate
that we shall undertake that task without guidance?” Quentin rested with
his back against a mossy log in a green clearing deep in Pelgrin’s wooded
heart. Toli was busily poking among the bundles of the pack ponies to
assemble a bite for them to eat. They had been riding since sunrise, and
this was the first time they had stopped.
   “I have an idea where we may find someone suited to the task,” said
Durwin. His hands were clasped behind his head, and his eyes were gazing
skyward faraway. “Does the name Inchkeith mean anything to you?”
   “Inchkeith! Why he is said to be the most skilled armorer who ever
lived. He fashioned the armor for the first Dragon King, and he it was who
designed Eskevar’s battle dress which he wore in the wars against Goliah.
Everyone knows that name! But is he still alive?”
   “Oh, very much alive, though you make him older than he really is. It
was his father, Inchkeith the Red, who made the armor for the first Dragon
King, and for several kings before that. He is many long years in his
grave.
   “But his son has continued the work begun by his fathers, and has
increased the renown of the name. It is no wonder legends abound
wherever men strap on greaves and gorget. The armor of Inchkeith is
known as the finest made by human hands.”
   Durwin smiled and winked at Quentin’s look of unalloyed amazement.
“Well, what say you? Will he do to make us a sword?”
   “A slingshot fashioned by master Inchkeith would do as well. Of course
he will do!”
   They ate their meal and talked of the trail. Toli said little, and Quentin
guessed his servant was concentrating upon reviving his dormant
trailcraft—it had been a long time since the wily Jher had had an
opportunity to practice the storied skills of his people. The little journeys
back and forth from Askelon hardly counted, for there was a good road.
But where they were going they would have need of his animal-like
cunning, for there were no roads, no pathways, nor even trails. Man had
not set foot in those high places in a thousand years.
   Quentin was thinking on these things, realizing that, just as he did not
know how they would fashion the sword, he did not now know exactly
where they were going.
   “These mines, Durwin—where are they? How will we find them?”
   “I have brought along maps, such as they are, taken from the old scrolls.
This is as good a time as any to show you. Here.” The hermit moved to
one of the ponies and withdrew a long roll of leather.
   “This is the way we shall go,” he said, unrolling the map. “It is very old,
this map. And the land is much changed; rivers have slipped from their
courses and hills have worn away, forests have vanished and cities have
come and gone. But it shall serve to guide us nonetheless.”
   Quentin fingered the skin on which the map was painted. “This does not
appear as old as you say, Durwin. It looks as if it were made only
yesterday.”
   “It was!” laughed Durwin. “We did not dare bring the original, or
originals, I should say, for this map is made from scraps Biorkis and I
have found over the years. The very age of the scraps made bringing them
out of the question. They would have blown away on the first breath of a
breeze.
   “No, this map was made by the combined resources of Biorkis and
myself, and it is a better map for it. He had information which I did not. It
is a lucky thing he came when he did. If he does nothing else, he has
already helped greatly.”
   “Durwin,” Quentin clucked, “do you not know that where the servants
of the Most High are concerned there is no such thing as luck and
coincidence?”
   The hermit laughed and raised his hands before him. “So it is! Give me
quarter! I submit. The pupil has instructed the master.”
   “Just to show you that I am not always so dull,” he said, looking again
to the map, which seemed little more than a bare sketch. “Be it as you say,
there is still precious little here to follow. I do not even see any mines
indicated on it.”
   “Very rough. But it is all we have—besides the riddle.”
   “Riddle?” Toli spoke up. He stood over them looking down at the map.
   “Did I not tell you of the riddle? Oh? Well, I will tell you now. There
was so much to do and so little time, I do not wonder that you feel ill-
equipped to begin this journey. I thought I had told you.
   “The riddle goes like this:

         Over tooth and under claw wend your way with care.
         When mountains sleep, sharp vigil keep, you shall see the
       way most clear.
         When you hear laughter among the clouds and see a
       curtain made of glass
         Take no care for hand nor hair, or you shall surely never
       pass.
         Part the curtain, divide the thunder and seek the narrow
       way;
         Give day for night and withhold the light
         And you have won the day.”

   “It sounds simple enough,” said Quentin. “Where did you find it?”
   “That we shall see. I am certain that it will seem more than difficult
enough when the time comes to unravel its meaning. As to where I found
it, you should know that already.”
   “How so?”
   “At Dekra. That is where I discovered most of what little I know of this
affair. Yeseph himself translated it for me.”
   “He never told me about it.”
   “Why should he? It was years ago, and I was a pestering young man
digging through his library like a mole. I chanced upon the riddle in a
book which made mention of the mines of the Ariga.”
   “Those are the mines we seek?”
   Durwin nodded. “You see, the blade is to be made of lanthanil.”
   “The stone which glows,” said Toli. “My people have heard of it. It is
said that of old the Ariga gave gifts of glowing stones to the Jher for their
friendship in the time of the white death. Whoever touched the stone was
healed and made whole. They were called Khoen Navish—the Healing
Stones.”
   “Yes, that at least I have heard of, too. But I assumed that like much of
the lore of the Ariga, the lanthanil had passed from this earth.”
   “I think not, though we shall see,” Durwin said. “The Most High will
show us aright. We must remember that it is he who guides us to his own
purpose. We need not fret ourselves overmuch about the things we cannot
foresee. The things we see too well will require our utmost attention, I
have no doubt.”
   Theido and Ronsard, with a force of three hundred mounted knights
behind them, rode southward as fast as their coursers could take them.
They wanted to reach their rendezvous with Lord Wertwin on the third
day and then undertake to engage the enemy before he had a chance to
travel very much further and strengthen himself on the spoils of
Mensandor.
   At midday on the third day they reached the prearranged place of
meeting. The knights dismounted and walked the wide greensward while
they waited for Wertwin’s army to arrive. Squires in attendance watered
the horses and saw to their masters’ armor; some polished breastplates and
repainted devices erased by use, others set up their sharpening stones to
hone blades long unused, and the smiths at their wagons pounded out
dents in helm and brassard upon their anvils.
   The day was filled with the clatter of an army looking to its armament.
Theido and Ronsard had withdrawn under a shady branch to await their
comrade. Ronsard dozed, and Theido paced while the afternoon came on
in full.
   “He has not come yet?” asked a sleepy Ronsard as he rose to his feet,
stretching.
   “No, and I am beginning to wonder if we should send a scout ahead to
see what may have become of him. He should have been here waiting for
us. Instead it is we who wait for him, and he shows not.”
   “I will send Tarkio ahead a little and see if he can discover what has
become of our tardy friend. Perhaps it is nothing. You know it is no small
task to mobilize a force of knights in a single day. He may have gotten a
late start.”
   “Let us hope that is what has happened,” said Theido. He did not need to
mention the other explanation which came to his mind. Both of them knew
what it was, and neither wanted to hear or believe it.
   Ronsard sent a squire to fetch the knight, and they waited for the courier
to ready himself. “You are wearing a path in the grass, brave sir. Your
pacing has bared the earth.”
   “I like this less and less, Ronsard. I do. Something has happened. I feel
it here.” He smacked his fist against his flat stomach.
   Ronsard stared at his dark friend. “Your instincts in the ways of battle
are keen, sir. What would you have us to do?”
   Before Ronsard could answer they heard a battle horn sound in the
wood; it seemed to surround them as it blasted a note of alarm. They
turned and looked out across the greensward and saw a knight on a
charger come crashing out of the wood. They watched as one of their own
apprehended the man; there was a wild waving of arms, and then the
knight looked toward them and spurred his mount forward. In an instant
he was pounding toward the spot where Theido and Ronsard waited.
  “Noble knights, brave sirs! I come from Lord Wertwin,” the breathless
soldier said as he flung himself from his saddle. “We were on our way
here and were joined by the enemy....” He gulped air; sweat ran down his
neck and into his tunic. His armor was battered and dashed with blood.
  “How far?” asked Ronsard.
  “No more than a league, sir,” the knight wheezed.
  “What was the disposition of the rank when you were sent to find us?”
  The knight shook his head slowly; his face was grave. “There is little
hope. The enemy is strong, and there are many of them. My lord was
surrounded on three sides, his back to the lake that lies at the edge of the
forest.”
  “There is no time to lose!” shouted Ronsard. “Marshal, sound the
trumpet. We move at once!” He dashed to his charger and began shouting
orders to the men who had gathered around to see what the commotion
foretold.
  In three heartbeats the greensward was a confusion of knights buckling
on armor and clamoring into their saddles. Out of the chaos emerged a
ready-mounted, fearsome host. Theido and Ronsard each took their places
at the head of a column and the army moved off at a gallop, leaving the
armorers and squires to load the wagons and follow along behind.
  The dash of battle could be heard long before it was seen. The King’s
forces dropped down the wooded slope into a broad grassy bowl, lumped
over with green tufted hillocks, which formed the higher end of the lake’s
basin. Once below the level of the lower trees they could see that the
enemy had indeed surrounded Wenwin’s troops and were attempting to
push them into the lake.
  Theido and Ronsard ranged their army along the rim of the bowl and,
when the knights were in position, sounded the attack. They came
swooping down out of the wood and encompassed the field, driving
straight into the thick of the enemy.
  The startled Ningaal turned to meet this unexpected charge and found
themselves blade to blade with a fresh foe. Ronsard half-expected that the
sight of the King’s knights descending in numbers upon them would send
the horde scattering into the wood, where they could be driven to earth
like cattle.
   But the warlord Gurd’s men were seasoned to battle. They dug in and
met the flying charge head-on. Many Ningaal lost their lives in that first
surge. But dauntless and seemingly immune to fear, those who survived
the onslaught merely stepped over the bodies of their comrades and fought
on.
   Theido forced a passage through to the shoreline of the lake and struck
toward where Wenwin labored in the thick of the bank. When Theido
reached him, the brave commander’s horse’s hind legs were in the water.
Several valiant knights, having been unsaddled, had drowned along the
strand in shallow water, unable to right themselves.
   The fallen were everywhere. The blood of friend and foe alike stained
the gray shingle a rusty red.
   Ronsard led his contingent around to the rear to begin a pinching action
upon the enemy caught between Theido’s forces and his own. By sheer
force of weight—the knights being mounted, and the enemy on foot—
Ronsard was able to join Theido in short order, successfully dividing the
Ningaal into two isolated halves.
   “We are outnumbered!” Ronsard called when he had driven to within
earshot of his comrade.
   “Our horses and armor will sway the balance!” Theido retorted.
   The blades of the knights flashed in the sun; their shields bore the shock
of fierce blows. On horseback the knights were almost invulnerable—
living fortresses of steel—their beveled armor shedding all but the most
direct strikes against them. On foot, however, the slow-moving, heavy-
laden knights were disadvantaged by the lightly protected but more agile
Ningaal.
   The tide of battle ebbed and flowed for both sides. The clash of steel and
the cries of the wounded and dying filled the air, and carrion birds, having
tasted blood on the wind, now soared overhead. With a mighty shout the
Ningaal, at some unknown signal, suddenly rushed the mound that Theido
and Ronsard had managed to gain. The tactic allowed them to rejoin the
two halves which had been divided.
   “We cannot hold them long,” said Ronsard through clenched teeth, his
blade whistling around his head. “We must break through now, or we may
be trapped against the lake once more.”
   “Aye, well said. Have you any suggestions?” Theido grunted as he
slashed and wheeled in his saddle, thrusting and thrusting again.
   “A charge along the shoreline and then back into the woods!” shouted
Ronsard.
   “Retreat?” asked Wertwin. “I would rather fall with my men.”
   “Let us say that we are moving the battle to more favorable ground,”
cried Theido. “If we stay here much longer, we will be pushed into the
lake once more. They are too strong for us!” He turned and shouted his
order to the marshal, who obediently sounded the horn.
   The knights of the Dragon King drew together and pushed along the
shore of the clear blue lake; those scattered further afield disengaged
themselves and followed in their wake. Several riderless horses joined the
retreat, and knights on foot ran alongside, not to be left behind.
   When they had reached the shelter of the wood where the ground sloped
upward, Ronsard halted and turned his men to face the foe once more.
Theido’s and Wertwin’s knights streamed past and continued deeper into
the wood. Ronsard called to his knights to be ready to dismount after
meeting the first attack. He had decided in the close quarters of the wood
it would be better for his men to fight on foot and use the higher ground to
their advantage.
   But the Ningaal did not follow them into the wood.
   “What is this? They withdraw,” Ronsard cried in disbelief.
   Instantly Theido was beside him. “I do not understand. It is hours to
sunset, but they are leaving.”
   “Let us go after them!” said Wertwin.
   Ronsard cautioned against this, saying, “Let them go. Whatever moves
them, I do not think it is fear of us. They were giving blade for blade down
there. They are not fleeing. It may be a trap.”
   “We could crush them!” objected Wertwin.
   “Nay, sir!” said Theido. “But a moment ago we were in difficulty to
hold our own. That will not have changed because they choose to
withdraw. Ronsard is right—they do not leave the battlefield out of
weakness.”
   Theido cast his eyes across the tufted field now bearing the bodies of the
dead and dying. Upon the mound they had just left he saw a lone figure
mounted on a sturdy black charger. The figure raised the visor of his
plume-crested helm and turned his face to where Theido, Wertwin and
Ronsard stood at the edge of the wood. Then he lifted his sword with the
cruel curved blade high above his head in salute.
  “It is the warlord,” said Theido.
  “He taunts us!” hissed Wertwin.
  “It is a salute, perhaps. A warning,” said Ronsard grimly.
  The warlord lowered his sword and turned aside to follow his army, now
moving away along the opposite side of the lake, leaving the field to the
birds and the moans of the wounded and dying.
  “Send a party to bind our wounded and to retrieve the armor of our
fallen. We need not fear another attack today,” said Theido. “Then let us
go back to camp and hold council. I would hear what Myrmior has to say
about what has happened here today. He may have much to tell us.”



                   THIRTY-TWO
  UNDER THEIR banners of blue and gold and scarlet in the council ring,
the lords of Mensandor sat in their high-backed chairs. Eskevar glared
down from his throne upon the dais, his thin, knotted hands clutching the
armrests like claws.
  “The foe does grow each day stronger. How long will you wait, my
lords? How long? Until your castles are burning? Until the blood of your
women and children run red upon the earth?
  “And to what purpose? Do you think that by hiding within your gates
you may save your precious gold? I say that you will not! The enemy
comes! He is drawing closer. The time to move is now!”
  The Dragon King’s words rang with surprising force and vigor, coming
as they did from a man who appeared only half of what he had been, so
wasted was he by his illness. The gathered lords, now all accounted for—
aside from Wertwin who had made his decision and was with Theido and
Ronsard—sat in silence. No one wished to be the first to go against the
King.
  “Do you doubt the need?” asked Eskevar in a softer tone. “I will tell you
how I perceive the need: I have sent my personal bodyguard, my three
hundred, to stand against the Ningaal. Lord Theido and the Lord High
Marshall Ronsard lead them, and they are joined by Lord Wertwin and his
standing army of a hundred.
   “These are gallant men and brave; but they are not enough. We must
send tenfold knights and men-at-arms to stand with them if the Ningaal are
to be crushed and banished from our shores.”
   Lord Ameronis, in a voice of calm reason, said, “That is precisely the
point we would question further, Sire. This enemy... this Nin, whoever he
is... we know not of him. How do we know that he is so strong and his
numbers so great? It would seem to me that we would be more than
prudent to send a scouting force to ascertain these and other details before
embarking upon all-out war with an imagined enemy of unknown
strength.”
   “How well you speak, Ameronis. I would imagine, as you have had
ample time to compose your thoughts, that you are quite settled in your
mind as to how you will go.” The King paused to let his sarcasm hit its
mark.
   “Lord Ameronis opposed the call to arms!” shouted Eskevar suddenly.
“Who else will defy his King?”
   Eskevar’s sudden unmasking of Ameronis’ subtle opposition shocked
the assembly, and in that moment several of the lords who had agreed to
join a coalition of nobles against raising and funding an army now
wavered in their opinion. It was a dangerous thing to defy a king outright,
especially one as powerful as Eskevar. It might not be worth the gold they
would save in the end.
   But Ameronis recovered neatly. “You misunderstand me, Sire. I do not
oppose action where it is plainly necessary. When the time comes to stand
on the battle line, I will be at the head of my knights and at your side.”
   Lord Lupollen, Ameronis’ neighbor and friend, his closest ally in the
council, spoke next. “If this enemy is as great as you say, Sire, would we
not have heard of him before now? That is the puzzling thing.”
   There was a murmur of assent at this question. Eskevar looked sharply
at Lupollen and said, “You also I know, my lord. That your King has sent
his own knights into battle should be proof enough for anyone loyal to the
crown that the need exists. Why do you doubt your King?”
   Eskevar stood in the silence that followed his remarks. He looked at
each one of his lords in turn, as if he would remember the exact set of each
chin and the expression upon each face.
  “I have said all I can, lords of Mensandor. And I have allowed others to
speak where I thought most advantageous.” He was speaking of Esme who
had again pled her request for help before the council earlier that day. “I
have nothing more to say. It is up to you. If Mensandor is to survive, we
must not tarry.”
  He stepped down from the dais and moved out into the circle of the
council chairs. He spread out his hands imploringly—hardly a
characteristic gesture for the Dragon King, and it was not without effect.
  “I leave it in your hands. Do not wait too long.”
  He left the Council of War deep in hushed silence. No one dared to
speak until he was far away from the room, and then the arduous debate
began: Ameronis and Lupollen and their friends in opposition; Benniot,
Fincher and several others just as strongly in favor of supporting the
King’s call to arms.
  The argument was bitter, loud and long, lasting the length of the day.
Eskevar returned to his apartments in the castle to brood darkly upon the
stubborn blindness of his independent, self-sufficient lords.
  With every league the foothills of the Fiskills marched closer, changing
in color from misty violet to blue above the mottled green of the forested
hills. The party had set out due east cross-country toward the lofty heart of
the rugged mountain range. In this part of Mensandor the Fiskills seemed
to rise sharply out of rolling hills gently sloping upwards to their very feet.
They were a wall, as Celbercor had intended them, a soaring fortress
against all save the most foolish and determined. It was this fortress
Quentin, Toli and Durwin dared to assail.
  Each day the land rose higher. Quentin fancied he could feel the wind
freshen and the cool air of the mountain heights waft down to breathe
upon them in unexpected moments. In the happy countryside with its
small, well-groomed villages, it became increasingly harder to believe the
ominous events that had loomed so large when in Askelon. Even his own
experiences in the camp of the Ningaal seemed as if they had happened to
someone else and Quentin had merely heard about it. If not for his injured
arm dangling from the sling, Quentin would scarcely have believed the
tale.
  Only at night did the sharp reminder prick him; it came in the form of
the star, growing slightly larger night by night. It now seemed to outshine
every other star in its quadrant. Hard and bright, it sent a corona of milky
rays outward from its hot, white core. Everyone must see it burn, thought
Quentin, laying rolled in his cloak at night. Everyone must surely feel the
evil it portends.
   But by morning’s light the Wolf Star faded, as did all the other lesser
lights of heaven. The spell of the glowing star was broken by the coming
of dawn.
   “How far before we come to Inchkeith’s abode?” asked Quentin as they
made ready early one morning to get underway.
   “With luck,” answered Durwin, “we will sleep in featherbeds tonight.”
   “Are we so close, then?” Quentin had no idea where the home of the
legendary arms maker might be. But the rocky highlands they were now
traversing did not strike him as the sort of place a master armorer would
be found.
   Durwin walked up the slope of a little hill where they had camped.
Quentin followed, squinting as he moved out into the light of a crimson
sunrise.
   “Do you see that ridge of bare rock beyond the near valley?”
   Quentin nodded. The ridge was a ragged gray wall which cast a black
shadow across the green blanket of the pine-covered valley. “He lives
beyond the ridge?”
   “Not beyond it—within it!” laughed Durwin. “Or very nearly, as you
shall see. Inchkeith is a strange man; he has many strange ways. But he is
the man for us.”
   “You know him, Durwin? You have never mentioned him in my hearing
until most recently.” Quentin regarded his hermit friend with something
approaching suspicion. Not that there was anything at all unlikely with
Durwin’s being acquainted with such a man.
   “There is much I do not mention in your hearing my young man. Only
half of what I know will fit in my head at any one time!” He winked and
laughed, his voice booming in the clear morning.
   Toli whistled from below. When they joined him, all was ready.
   “If we are to sleep on feathers tonight instead of pine needles, we had
better away. See how long the shadows grow already.”
   Toli’s dark eyes flashed with good humor. He was once more in his
native element. Every day he seemed to slip more and more into the quiet
enigma he had been when Quentin first met him years before. Give him
back his deerskins and bone knife, thought Quentin, and he would be once
more the Jher prince.”
  “You would prefer pine needles, I would wager, Toli. But lead on! The
day, as you say, is speeding from us!” Quentin, with difficulty but
unaided, swung himself up into Blazer’s saddle and turned his face to the
warmth of the rising sun.
  Toward midday towering banks of clouds sweeping down from the
north in a long line, gray as smoke beneath and white as new-bleached
wool above, rolled high above them. The churning mass swelled and
billowed, spreading a great flat anvil at its soaring crest as the fierce upper
winds took the bank and flattened it.
  “There will be rain soon,” said Toli.
  “Do you think it will hold off until we have reached our destination?”
  “Possibly,” replied Toli, squinting his eyes into the sky. “But the air is
already growing cooler. Thunder whispers on the wind. The rain may hold
and it may not.”
  Quentin could hear no thunder, but since Toli had mentioned it he did
seem to notice that the feathery breeze lifting the leaves in the trees around
them now bore a cooler touch.
  “Then let us not tempt it further by stopping to wag the chin!” cried
Durwin. “Let us ride dry while we still may. A hot supper will make up
for a meal missed on the trail.”
  “I am for it!” called Quentin as he spurred Blazer ahead. “Let’s away!”
  Durwin urged his brown palfrey forward, followed by Toli with the two
pack horses; Quentin brought up the rear and kept a wary eye on the
gathering clouds overhead. They had made good time that morning,
stopping only to refresh the water in their skins at a rushing brook in the
heart of the valley. Every time Quentin chanced to look up, the great gray
wall of rock, glimpsed as a looming rampart between the shaggy branches
of pine, seemed to have advanced dramatically closer.
  Presently Quentin heard the splash of a nearby stream as it tumbled over
rock. The party left the sheltering pines and came to a wild and rocky
channel carved out by a shallow river which bounced and frothed over
black stones, round as loaves of bread. The tumbling water, for all its
activity, rose barely to the horses’ fetlocks, but it was as broad as a ward
yard. Durwin struck along the loamy bank and turned upstream parallel to
the face of the ridge.
  Standing pools of water along the bank mirrored the bulging blue-black
clouds overhead. The wind had freshened, and Quentin could smell the
musty earth scent of rain.
  The stream angled around a sweeping bend lined with tall, finger-dun,
long-needled pines that whispered in the rising wind. “The rain is on the
way!” shouted Durwin.
  “Our destination is not too much further, I hope,” called Quentin as he
came abreast. “Perhaps we should find a shelter and wait until the first
downpour has passed.”
  “If I remember correctly, we have not far to travel. Look ahead.” The
hermit pointed to the gray cliffs directly before them once more, “See
where the water emerges from the base of the ridge wall? It is just ahead.”
  “It appears a seamless wall,” said Quentin.
  “You will see. You will see.”
  “Unless we hurry, Inchkeith the armorer will greet three very soggy
travelers,” remarked Toli. As he spoke, the first fat drops of rain began
plunking into the pools around them and plopping onto the trail, where
they raised tiny puffs of dust.
  They spurred their mounts ahead with renewed vigor as the ripe droplets
splattered around them and made dark splotches upon their clothing.
  As they came nearer the place Durwin had pointed out, Quentin could
see a fold in the ridge wall he had not noticed before. Where the stream
emerged, the left face of the cliff angled away sharply as the right face
overlapped it. From a distance it gave the eye the impression of a
continuous, unseamed wall. Closer, it began to open to them as they
followed the river to the vast stony feet of the rock face.
  The ground rose slightly as it met the ridge; pine trees grew right up to
the very face of the gray wall. The horses’ hooves clattered over a stone
embankment, and then they were through the cliff and gazing on a
breathtaking sight. Despite the raindrops pelting down around them,
Quentin stopped to marvel at the vision before him. A vast rolling
meadow of rich mountain green spread out on either side of the stream,
here narrower and more deep. Enclosing the meadow and towering above
it on all sides rose smooth, flat walls of stone, now blue under the black
sky. At the far end of the meadow, which Quentin adjudged to be fully a
league wide and half a league long, stood an enormous house of white
stone, glimmering like the white sails of a ship on an emerald sea.
   “That is Inchkeith’s home,” said Durwin, “and we are just in time.”
   A clap of thunder rolled across the ridge to echo its booming voice
throughout the meadow. The long grass began to dip and rise like the
waves of Gerfallon in the fitful wind.
   They galloped out into the wonderful meadow, the rain, sharper now,
stinging their cheeks. Quentin felt a thrill of excitement as lightning tore
the sky in a jagged flash. The resounding roar filled the blue canyon and
rumbled out across the valley behind them.
   Inchkeith’s house was as large as a small castle, an impression
strengthened by the single stately tower which served as entrance and
gatehouse before a generous, stone-paved courtyard. Several smaller
structures clustered close about the main house; these were also of the
same white stone. The stream, running deep and quiet in its course through
the meadow, formed a graceful waterfall as it spilled out over the sheer
rock face behind the master armorer’s manor. At the further end, where
the water ran down into the meadow, a large wheel turned slowly in the
swift current.
   There was no one to be seen as the travelers pounded to a halt before the
tower, A portcullis of finely wrought iron barred their way into the
courtyard beyond.
   “He keeps no gateman,” observed Durwin, “because he expects no
travelers and has but few guests.”
   The hermit slid down off his palfrey and strode to the archway.
   In a nook in the stone hung a knotted rope. Darwin grasped the rope and
pulled twice very quickly. A bell pealed in the courtyard.
   “That should bring someone running,” said Durwin. The rain was falling
harder; in a few moments they would be soaked to the skin. Out across the
meadow, back the way they had come, great white sheets of shimmering
rain were wavering toward them, driven like sails before the wind. Water
was pooling up around the horses’ feet and streaming down the walls of
the manor.
   “Who seeks admittance to my master’s house?” Quentin had not seen
the slight young man run out of a doorway across the courtyard. He held
his cloak over his head and peered at them through the iron grillwork of
the portcullis.
   “Tell your master that Durwin the Holy Hermit of Pelgrin and his
friends Quentin and Toli are here to see him on King’s business. Tell him
we respectfully request the hospitality due travelers. And you had better
tell him quickly, or we will be in a most unhappy disposition.” He wiped
away the trickle of water sliding down the side of his nose.
   The young man seemed to weigh a decision carefully. “You do not seem
disposed to be unruly. Come in out of the rain while I fetch word to the
master.” He disappeared into a recess beside the portcullis and instantly
the heavy iron gate began to lift, smoothly and without so much as a
squeak or a creak. It was obviously made with the utmost skill.
   The damp travelers hurriedly stepped under the arch of the gatehouse to
wait until the young servant returned. Quentin and Toli dismounted and
stood dripping in the dark tunnel of the archway.
   Quentin was struck by the spare simplicity of all he saw around him.
Not a post nor portal possessed an inch of ornamentation. Around the
perimeter of the courtyard not an item was out of place, and the yard itself
was spotless. The edifice of Inchkeith’s manor house was all clean lines
and square corners; clearly it had been erected with exacting care. Not a
crack or crevice was to be seen anywhere.
   To Quentin’s eye the effect was reminiscent of the architecture of
Dekra, though not at all derivative of it. He was impressed with the clean
appearance of all that met his eye; it spoke of a hand that left nothing
undone, and a mind that saw to the smallest detail.
   He heard a shout and saw the young servant waving to them from inside
the arched entrance to the manor hall. They dashed across the corner of the
courtyard and joined him under the sheltering portico. “Come along with
me. Take no heed for your horses; I win send someone to care for them
and bed them. My master asks that you join him at table in the great hall if
you are so inclined.”
   “Indeed we are!” Quentin fairly shouted. He was hungry, cold and wet.
A hot meal seemed like the most wonderful thing he could have dreamed
at the moment. “Lead on!”
   The skinny, long-boned young man led them along the short passage to
the hall’s entrance, pushed open the iron-bound wooden door and ushered
them in. The hall was ample and gracious, but marked with the same
unadorned, almost severe style as the exterior. Quentin gazed around in
admiration. Several servants were moving about in preparation for the
meal. A single long table with benches along either side overlooked a
wide and generous hearth in which a well-made fire burned cheerily. It
spoke of a well-drafted chimney, for there was, Quentin noted with
pleasure, not a trace of soot on the walls or ceiling of the hall anywhere.
Everything was as clean as if it had never been used, and yet it was warm
and homey.
  The appearance of Lord (for so Quentin now considered him)
Inchkeith’s abode drew a picture in Quentin’s mind of a stern and exacting
personage of regal bearing, a man of quick temper and a will as strong as
the iron gate at his door, a man of precise and flawless judgment, one who
would never suffer imperfection or blemish lightly. A man of power,
strength and grace. A man of relentless, fervent perfection, obeyed by all
around him with unspoken efficiency and unfailing courtesy.
  “Durwin! You old mumblebeard!” a hearty voice boomed out behind
them. “Welcome! Welcome, fair friends! Welcome to Whitehall!”
  Quentin turned, expecting to see the man of his imaginings. The picture
so carefully drawn in his mind collapsed utterly as Quentin, with a rude
shock, beheld the Lord of Whitehall.



                THIRTY-THREE
  “YOU SHOULD have allowed me to accompany you today,” said
Myrmior. “I could have helped you against them.”
  “No.” Ronsard shook his head sternly. “You are too valuable an ally.
You will help us more with your knowledge of the Ningaal ways than with
your strong sword arm. If you had been killed today, as many good men
were, we should have no one to guide us in preparing against them.”
  “I submit to your will, Lord Ronsard. I will obey. But I wanted you to
know that I was not afraid, and that when the time comes for me to lift
blade against my former enslavers, I will do so with all courage.”
  “We do not doubt your valor, brave Myrmior. You will ride with us in
due time, no doubt. But Ronsard is right. You are worth more to us as a
guide to the Ningaal’s mind and heart, than as a sword wielder. You are
unique; stout blades we have many.”
  Lord Wertwin sat nearby and did not speak. His heart was heavy with
the loss of many fine men that day; he had borne the brunt of the battle
and was now bereft of almost half his company.
  After the daring rescue of Wertwin’s troops by Theido and Ronsard’s
forces, they had all returned to make camp for the night upon the
greensward. As they sat huddled in consultation, the ring of the hammer
upon the anvil and the moans of the wounded could be heard throughout
the camp as smith and surgeon saw to the repair of weapons and men.
Sentinels had been posted and fires had been lit for the night’s vigil.
Theido, Ronsard, Myrmior and Wenwin turned once more to the brutal
events of the day.
  “We cannot go up against them again as we did today,” said Ronsard
grimly. “They are too strong, and too well-disciplined.”
  “Disciplined!” snorted Myrmior. “They simply fear their warlord more
than they fear you. You can only kill them, but he has power over their
souls!”
  “Is he really so powerful? I have heard of such things in my time,” said
Theido.
  Myrmior shrugged. “Whether it is true or not, I do not know. But the
Ningaal believe it, so it is for them—and for you—the same thing. They
will fight to the death rather than surrender. And each foe they kill
becomes a step on the long stairway of immortality, or so they believe.”
  “Whatever gives them their ferocity, it is indomitable. I do not see how
we can stand against such a foe. Though they are but lightly armed and
our own men well-protected, they wear us down by sheer crush of their
numbers. We have lost near seventy-five brave knights this day.”
  “Do not forget that you have only seen but a fraction of the total. Three
other warlords with their armies are abroad. When they have joined
together once more, nothing will stop them.” As Myrmior uttered this
gloomy pronouncement, Wertwin glared under his brows and cursed.
  “By Azrael! What would you have us do, you savage! Are we merely to
fall upon our swords and be done with it? If you know so much, why do
you not give us guidance? Instead you torment us with your lies.”
  Myrmior suffered this outburst in silence. His countenance showed
nothing but sympathy for the commander’s plight “I have said what I have
said in order that you will not build any false hopes of standing against the
Ningaal in battle,” he said quietly. They cannot be beaten in that manner.
At least not with our numbers.”
  He paused, and all was silent in the tent of the commanders. Outside the
twilight deepened, the sky blue-black with the coming night. They could
hear the clear ring of the hammer on steel and the crackle of a fire nearby.
The shadows of men were flung against the walls of the tent, making it
seem as if they were surrounded by the shades of their fallen comrades.
  “I have not been idle in my long captivity. I have seen much of the ways
in which men make war. I have studied those who have fallen against the
Ningaal and have observed the things which offer greatest hope of victory,
though few enough they are.”
  “Tell us, then,” implored Ronsard, “what can we do?”
  “Remember, too, that we will have greater numbers before long. The
council continues to meet and we may expect help soon, I think,” said
Theido hopefully.
  “That we must not count on,” said Myrmior. “What I will propose now
will serve us for the time we have to wait, little or long.”
  “Well said. Begin then. We are ready to hear what you would suggest.”
  “Are the soldiers of your country familiar with the bow and arrow?”
asked Myrmior.
  “Why, of course!” laughed Ronsard. “It is a useful thing, but hardly a
weapon to be relied upon in the field. It is highly inaccurate, and it has no
chance against the steel of a knight’s hard shell.”
  “It is more suited for annoying forest creatures and for striking from a
distance in seclusion. It is not a weapon for a knight,” agreed Theido. “The
bow cannot be managed from the saddle of a galloping horse.”
  Wertwin only harumphed. “Bows and arrows! Hmph!”
  “At least you have such weapons,” said Myrmior quickly. “Do not
condemn the plan before you have heard it fully.
  “I do not propose to take archers onto the field with us, but neither do I
propose that we take the field again. I will speak most bluntly. You were
lucky today; your gods smiled on you. In all the time I have been with
Lord Gurd, he has shown pity to no one and has never left the field if there
was the smallest chance of victory.
   “What be did today is rare, but not unheard of. He gave you a chance to
regroup and ready yourselves for another battle, because more than battle
itself he loves a skillful opponent. To him it is no sport to kill a weak and
defenseless foe. That is mere slaughter, and there is little immortality to be
gained from taking a weak life.
   “You stood against him, and he respected you for it. When you retreated
he recognized a most resourceful foe, one whose death would bring him
much bloodhonor. He wanted you to regroup so that he could savor the
satisfaction of your defeat.
   “Like the vinemaster who carefully tastes the fruit of his vines, the
warlord was testing you and found a match worthy of his art.”
   “What does all this have to do with bow and arrow?” asked Wertwin
sullenly. His heart was shrunken within him, and a black mood twisted his
features.
   “They are the means by which we will snatch that savored victory from
the warlord’s foul maw.”
   “Defeat him with children’s toys? Ha!”
   “Hold, sir!” said Theido. “Let him speak! For I begin to see something
of his meaning.”
   Myrmior bowed to Theido. “You are most astute, Lord Theido. I
propose that we do not take the field against the Ningaal—at least not yet,
not for a long while. Instead, we will harry them by night, raiding their
camp and raining arrows upon them when they move to chase us.
   “If we refuse to meet them face to face, Gurd win burn with rage. If we
are very fortunate, his rage will consume him.”
   “Where is the honor in that?” Wertwin shouted. “To skulk around by
night like lowborn thieves, shooting arrows at shadows. It is foolish and
absurd, and I will have no part in it!”
   “This war will not be won on your honor. Your men died with honor
today, and tonight they lie cold in their graves. How can that help you
now? Hear me, my lords! Cling to your honor and you will lose your
land.”
   “Myrmior is right,” said Ronsard slowly, glaring at Wertwin as he
spoke. “There is no honor if our land is lost. Even if we die with valor,
who will remember? Who will sing our praises in the halls of our fathers?
   “We will do well to look first to the cause at hand, and lastly to our good
names. I would stay alive to see Mensandor freed of this menace—
however it may be done.”
   “I agree,” said Theido thoughtfully. “But I am troubled by one thing.
What you suggest is well and good for meeting this warlord and his
contingent. But what of the others? Do we allow his brothers to roam
unchallenged through the countryside?”
   Myrmior shook his head slowly. He rubbed his bristly chin with a
sallow hand. “This is the most difficult part of the plan, my lords. It would
be well if your council would speedily send the troops we need, but as it is
I can see nothing for it but to proceed against all the warlords as I have
suggested—one at a time. The plan will work, I think, as it does not
require a great number of men to carry it out. But we will need archers.”
   “Most of our knights are trained to the bow, though few will readily
admit it. We can obtain, more archers if we send to Askelon—which we
must do to supply ourselves with the bows and arrows.”
   “Then let it be done at once. In the meantime we will withdraw and stay
just ahead of the Ningaal until we have weapons enough to begin our
raids.”
   “What? Are we to do nothing to impede the Ningaal? Are we to sit by
and allow them to march free over our fields?”
   “They have been doing so for weeks now, Lord Wertwin,” said Ronsard.
“If we must bear it a little longer to secure our purpose, so be it. We will
have to risk that much, at least. Besides,” he added with a mischievous
smile, “it may make them wonder what we are up to.”
   “Yes,” agreed Myrmior, “it will increase his wrath. What we attempt to
do is to worry them so greatly as to make them angry enough to commit a
foolish blunder, an error of strategy which we can seize and turn against
them. And all the while we will wear away at their numbers bit by bit, like
water dripping upon the stone, eroding it over time.”
   Theido stood and stretched; it had been a long day. “Your plan is a good
one, Myrmior. I will send a courier to Askelon at once. Tomorrow we will
begin schooling our knights to this new way of fighting. I only hope we
have enough time to make the change.”
   “We will have to, regardless,” replied Myrmior. “Believe me, brave sirs.
There is no other way.”
  Wertwin scowled at his comrades and growled as he stalked out of the
tent.
  “Do not mind him overmuch,” said Ronsard. “His heart will mend, and
he will be staunchly with us soon enough.” He, too, rose and stretched.
  “Thank you, Myrmior. You have given us wise and well-advised
counsel this night. I think that, like Wertwin, I should not have believed
you if I had not encountered the foe today and felt his cunning strength. I
know now that you are right and, like Theido, I pray we are not too late.”
  “It is no doubt that you were a faithful minister to your monarch,”
Theido added. “He must have valued your services very highly, but no
more than we do now. Before this is over we will have cause to reward
your craft and loyalty as it deserves. Perhaps one day you may return as
king to your own country.”
  Myrmior turned large sad eyes toward them. “I can never go back. The
land that I knew and loved is gone. Here I have chosen to make my stand,
as I should have long ago in my own country. Then I was afraid, but no
more. I have daily lived through death too horrible to tell, and it can never
terrify me again.”
  The three men stood looking at one another for a long moment. No one
spoke. A warm bond of friendship went out from the two knights to the
man from Khas-I-Quair. They put their hands on his shoulders.
  “Good night, brave sirs.” Ronsard yawned and rubbed his eyes.
“Tomorrow I take up once more the weapon of my youth. For that I will
need my rest, I think.”
  Theido and Myrmior laughed and went out to find their own tents for
the night.



                   THIRTY-FOUR
  DUMB-STRICKEN, Quentin could but stare slack-jawed at their host.
He had expected a warrior commander, or at very least a knight well-
acquainted with battle and the needs of fighting men and their weapons.
The person scuttling toward them across the expanse of the hall was quite
the opposite of Quentin’s mental image.
  Inchkeith, the legendary armorer, was a small man with a thin puckered
face and sinews like ropes standing out in his neck as if to keep his palsied
head from quivering off his thick shoulders. He was slight and bent at an
unnatural angle; Quentin saw at once that this was because the master
armorer’s spine was curved grotesquely. He walked on spindly legs in a
kind of rolling hop, and not at all in the slow and dignified tread of the
man Quentin had imagined.
  But the man’s hands were the hands of a master craftsman: broad,
generous and deft. They were strong hands and sure of movement,
graceful and never still for a moment. These remarkable hands were
attached to powerful arms and well-muscled shoulders—the shoulders of a
young man. It appeared to Quentin that some cruel jest had been played
upon the old man with the spindle legs. The brawny arms and chest of a
plowman or a soldier had been placed upon the frail body of a deformed
scullery servant.
  “It has been long since I have had the pleasure of your company,
Durwin. But here you are, and I rejoice at the sight of you.” Inchkeith
spoke with a deep voice, contrasting strangely with his wizened
appearance. In two hops he was in Durwin’s arms, and the two men were
embracing each other like brothers long lost.
  “It is good to see you again, Inchkeith. You have not changed a hair. I
have brought some friends with me that I would have you meet”
  “So I see! So I see! Good sirs, you are welcome in Whitehall now and
always. I hope you will feel free to stay as long as you like. We do not
have many guests here, and your stay will be cause for celebration.” The
master armorer made a ludicrous bow and winked at them. In spite of
himself, Quentin laughed out loud.
  “Master Inchkeith, you do us honor. I am certain your hospitality is most
gracious.”
  “This is Quentin and his companion Toli,” said Durwin.
  “Ah, Durwin, you travel in good company.” Inchkeith rolled his eyes
and held his hands up to his face in a show of respect.
  “Both of you are well-known here. Your deeds are sung within these
walls often, as are the great deeds of all brave warriors.”
  Quentin blushed and bowed, acknowledging the compliment. “The
stories do not tell all. I did what any man would have done, and not at all
bravely.”
  “Yes, but it was you that did it and not another,” Inchkeith jabbed the air
with a forefinger. “That is all the difference!”
  At that moment a door was thrown open at one end of the hall, and a
troop of young men came marching in as if they were soldiers drilling in
step.
  “Come!” cried Inchkeith, hobbling away. “You must meet my sons. I
know they will want to welcome you as well”
  The travelers followed their host; Quentin and Toli, grinning with
pleasure, were irresistibly drawn to this peculiar man—so unlike the exact
and scrupulous order around him
  There were seven sons, all handsome young men and well-mannered.
They did not speak, except when their father directed a question or
indicated that a reply would be welcome. Quentin greeted each one in
turn, as did Toli, and remarked that they were all like images one of
another: soft brown hair and eyes, full lips and brown cheeks, high, strong
foreheads. And they all possessed strong, straight limbs; none had
inherited their father’s deformity.
  “These are my army, my treasure, my pride,” said their father, looking
down upon them as they sat along the bench with backs straight and hands
folded in their laps.
  “And these are my gold and jewels!” Inchkeith turned and waved his
hand and as if on signal a tall, handsome woman entered from the near
side of the hall, followed by five beautiful young women. “My lady and
my daughters.”
  The young women tittered behind their hands as they approached, their
plain muslin gowns swishing pleasantly as they moved together. But when
each was introduced to Quentin she held out her hand like a highborn lady
and curtsied. Although he felt foolish he kissed their hands, to the glowing
approval of their mother. Toli felt obligated to follow his master’s
example.
  “You are most welcome in our home, my lords,” said Inchkeith’s wife.
“If you have need of anything, my household stands ready to serve you.”
  “You are most kind...”
  “I am Camilla,” she said, holding her hand out to Quentin. He kissed it,
and she curtsied. He noticed that the woman was years younger than her
husband; he wondered if she had borne all of the offspring he saw
gathered before him. It was possible—they all had her dark coloring; but if
so, she had retained a most youthful appearance.
   “Thank you for your kindness, my lady. I already feel welcome here,
and we have but arrived.”
   “Then let us not tarry another moment,” said Inchkeith with delight,
rubbing his hands together as if to warm them. “Be seated, good guests,
and partake with us of our bread.”
   Inchkeith took Durwin by the arm and drew him to the head of the table
with him, leaving Toli and Quentin in the care of the young women. They
settled together across the table from the young men and all at once they
began talking, asking questions about what was going on at court, what the
fashions were in Askelon, what news of the larger world did they bring.
   So inquisitive were they that Quentin could hardly keep up with their
questions, many of which he had to confess ignorance to, realizing that he
knew no more about some of their interests than did they themselves.
Their questions spoke of a firm knowledge of the world and its ways,
despite the seclusion in which they apparently lived. In all, Quentin barely
snatched a mouthful of food under their excited interrogation. As the meal
ended, he had formed the firm impression that this was by far the most
remarkable family he had ever met.
   When all had taken their fill of meat and bread and broth and fruit, the
sons of Inchkeith trooped off together, and the daughters, along with their
mother, began helping the servants clear away the trenchers and serving
vessels. Quentin and Toli moved to the head of the table where Inchkeith
and Durwin sat talking. Inchkeith had taken out a long pipe and was
lighting it.
   “Though I am grateful for the pleasure of your visit, I know that you did
not come just to see old Inchkeith. There is business to be done, aye?”
   “So it is,” Durwin nodded. “We do have some business to discuss with
you.”
   The craftsman took a long pull on his pipe, his cheeks caving in
completely. He blew them out again in a long, thin blast of smoke. “I like
nothing better,” he said. “But perhaps your business is not so urgent that it
will not wait until I have shown you some of my latest works.”
   “By all means,” urged Quentin. “I would very much like to see some of
your achievements.”
   “You twist my arm, sir!” laughed Inchkeith, getting up from the table.
“Follow me and you will see something to suit your fancy, I dare say.”
   They left the gleaming hall by a side entrance and were at once in a low,
dim room where rank on rank of polished armor stood emptily at attention,
waiting for their knights to lend them life. It looked the very armory of a
king, so many swords, bucklers, helms and breastplates did they see.
   Through this low-beamed room they came to another, smaller than the
first and darker. It contained lances and spears of all sizes and description,
and halberds without number. The long-shafted weapons were all bound
together in neat piles like new-mown sheaves of grain, bundled and
waiting to be thrashed. In the gloom Quentin could see the steel points of
lance and spear, and the smooth sharp blades of the halberds glimmering
as they passed.
   “Ah! Here we are. Watch your step. There. This is my only true home—
my workshop,” shouted Inchkeith above a new din.
   For they had stepped down into a room warm with the fires of the forge
and loud with the clangor of steel on steel. The room was easily as large as
the great hall, if not larger, and it was filled with the bustle of industry as
the sons of Inchkeith, and various servants, went about their work of
forging steel and iron into weaponry. There were tables and odd-looking
devices which defied adequate description all over the place, from one end
of the oblong room to the other. At each table, and surrounded by curious
trappings, a man labored over his craft: here a blade being affixed to its
hilt and handle, there a wooden shield receiving its hide covering, and
over across the way a truncated knight was acquiring his breastplate.
   Quentin was dazzled by the display, for it was totally unlike anything he
had ever seen. Inchkeith led them through the maze, pausing at each table
to impart some finer point of craft to the workman there. And wherever
the eye chanced to wander, it glanced upon a shining example of the
armorer’s art. Quentin doubted whether in all the world there was anything
to compare with Inchkeith’s workshop.
   Quentin looked upon the table and saw, among an assortment of strange
tools whose purposes he could but guess, a long broad sword, a mighty
thing, fully a span in length. The hilt was jewel encrusted and gold, and
the scabbard was silver engraved with scenes of the capture of a bear. It
was every inch a work of excellence and skill.
   “Do you like it?” asked Inchkeith, following Quentin’s gaze.
   “Like it? Sir, it is the most handsome of swords. A treasure.”
   “Here. You may examine it more closely.”
   With his left hand, and lamenting that he did not have the use of his
right, he drew the sword from its sheath and heard the cool whisper of the
sliding steel.
   It was made to be used with two hands; yet it was not much heavier than
its shorter cousin and was superbly balanced. Even with his left hand
Quentin could feel the lift of the blade and the almost effortless way in
which it followed the movement of the hand. Quentin passed the weapon
to Toli, who made it sing through the air; he saw the light of admiration
leap to the Jher’s dark eyes.
   “The blade is of a special steel I have begun making. It will shear iron.
This one”—he spoke as if it were but one fish of a thousand in his net—“I
have made for King Selric of Drin. It is all but finished.” He carefully
replaced the sword and turned to them with a twinkle in his eye. “Now I
will show you my masterpiece.”
   Inchkeith hobbled from his table to a low arched door set in a recess in
the wall nearby. As he passed the end of the table he took up a lamp and lit
it from a taper. After adjusting it, he proceeded to heave aside the heavy
bolt which secured the door. “This way,” he said, and he disappeared
inside the blackened doorway.
   The three followed their stooped guide into a small round chamber, and
it was a moment before their eyes could adjust to the darkness and the dim
lamplight. When Quentin raised his eyes a gasp escaped his lips. Before
him stood the most handsome suit of armor he could have imagined, but
that alone was not what took his breath away.
   Quentin saw before him the very armor he had seen in his vision.
   It was real. It existed and was flashing in the light of the lamp as if it
were wrought from a single diamond. Polished smooth, bright as water, it
shimmered before his dazzled, unbelieving eyes. Without heeding the
others, Quentin moved toward the place where it stood on its stanchion, as
if the object had beckoned him closer.
   The armor, pale and shimmering silver in the lamplight, was without
ornament or device of any kind. All its surfaces gleamed like gemstone,
flat and clean, reflecting a luminous radiance.
   The helm was magnificent, having a simple slotted visor and a crest
which was nothing more than a thin ridge from brow to crown. And, quite
unaccountably, from the shoulders hung a cloak of the most exquisite
chain mail Quentin had ever seen. He could not resist touching it. He
reached out a tentative fingertip and the mail rippled like liquid silver,
sparkling and dancing in the flickering light. The tiny, individual rings
sighed like the fall of snow upon frozen ground as they quivered beneath
his touch.
  “It is as light as goose down,” said a voice close to his ear. Inchkeith
was standing at his shoulder, his face lit with pleasure at Quentin’s
unutterable amazement.
  “Who is it for?” Quentin managed to croak out with effort.
  “Ah, there is the wonder of it!” The craftsman’s voice was but a sigh.
“No one—at least not yet. I fashioned it after a design that came to me in a
dream. I saw it and knew I must make it. I believe the owner will come to
claim it one day. Until then...” His voice trailed off.
  “I notice that it does not have a sword,” Quentin remarked suddenly.
“Why not?”
  Inchkeith the master armorer cocked his head to one side and frowned.
“You have touched it there, my lord. I saw no sword in my dream and so
made none.”
  “Then come, Master Inchkeith,” said Durwin. “It is time we talked.”



                    THIRTY-FIVE
  ESKEVAR PACED his inner chamber with long, impatient strides. He
held his hands clasped behind his back and cast his eyes to the floor. “The
fools! The fools!” he said under his breath. “They will bring the kingdom
down.”
  He had been two days in his tower—pacing, worrying. He had eaten and
slept but little and his features, now more lined and tightly drawn than
ever, bore the effect of his distress. Often he had occasion to anguish over
the stubbornness of his nobles, but now he saw clearly that the fate of the
nation lay in their hands and they seemed oblivious to the threat.
  Once and again he lamented the power, or lack of it, that stayed his hand
from more drastic action. In days of old he would have ordered his lords
into battle with but a wave of his hand; they would have had to obey or
lose their lands and privilege. In days older still, in the time of the first
Dragon King, the kingdom was ruled by the will of the all-powerful
monarch; then there had been no lords to question the command of the
King.
  Ah, but before that had been the time of the northern kings, when each
man, by the point of his sword, could become king in his own eyes, and
the realm was divided into tiny territories of scratching, biting, self-
important despots who swaggered about their principalities spoiling for a
fight and a chance to increase their holdings through the overthrow of a
neighboring monarch.
  Then the kings of the north had united and formed an alliance and had
established order throughout much of the realm, for they all acted in
harmony and for the best interest of the realm and no one dared to oppose
them, for to deny one was to deny all, to bring war on one was to declare
war on all. The petty kings of the south could not stand against them.
Eventually, over many long years, the power had become consolidated in
the north, and there it had stayed.
  Eskevar turned these things over in his mind as he paced the length of
his chamber or sat brooding in his great carven chair. He paused before his
window, shutters thrown wide to the glorious summer day. He sighed,
gazing out across the familiar landscape of green rolling hills and the
darker blue-green of forest. He saw the slow curve of the Herwydd
flowing in a lazy silver arc away to the south, moving in its own unhurried
time toward its own unchanging destination.
  “The cares of kings and kingdoms are nothing to you, great river.
Perhaps they are nothing at all.”
  The messenger who knocked and entered the room behind him found
him still standing at the window, staring far away. “Your Majesty, there
are lords without who wish to speak with you.”
  Eskevar seemed not to hear; so the page repeated his message. When at
last the King turned to the perplexed youngster, his weary face bore a sad
smile. “Allow them to enter my outer apartment. I will attend directly.”
  They have arrived at a decision, Eskevar thought. What will it be?
  Outside the rain fell steadily; the sound of its splattering in the courtyard
was punctuated by the rumble of thunder marching across the heavens to
do battle with the mountain peaks. Quentin imagined that the mountains
were giants and the thunder the voice that they raised to him. They were
calling him, taunting him to come and take from them their secret—if he
dared.
   It had been a long time since anyone had spoken. Toli was curled up like
a cat in a huge covered chair by the hearth. Durwin sat with hands folded
across his stomach, head down. Quentin himself sat slumped in his chair
with his chin in his palm. Only Inchkeith still seemed alert and active. He
hunched forward with his hands clutching his long pipe, puffing a cloud of
smoke around his head and glancing periodically at his guests.
   “I will do it!” he said at last, leaping up. “By the gods’ beards, I will do
it!”
   The suddenness of the outburst startled Quentin and brought Durwin’s
head up with a snap.
   “What?” Durwin shook his gray head. “Oh, Inchkeith, you startled me. I
must have dozed off a little. It has been a long day. Forgive me.”
   “I have thought the matter out most carefully, be assured of that,” said
the master armorer. “I will go with you to seek the lanthanil, and I will
make the sword. How can I refuse, eh?” The misshapen craftsman smiled,
and Quentin saw the relentless energy of the man burst from that smile.
   “It is the opportunity of a lifetime—of many lifetimes. If you are right
and the mines can be found, I would pay any sum to work the lanthanil.
You offer me the craftsman’s greatest dream. Yes, by all the gods that
may be, I will do it.”
   “I knew we could count on you, Inchkeith. We will find the mines, I am
certain. The prophecy is being fulfilled.” Durwin waved his hand toward
Quentin.
   “I care not for prophecy, nor whether Quentin here is this Priest King
you speak of. But I care that our realm is set upon by barbarians. By
Orphel that I do. And if this sword that I shall make can strike a blow
against them, if it can turn the battle, then I will make a sword such as man
has never seen. I will make the Zhaligkeer!”
   Quentin listened to the two talking and said nothing. All evening he had
listened, saying little. His restive mood was on him again, and this time he
perceived its cause: his arm.
   Durwin seemed to forget that Quentin, the one designated to play the
most important part in raising the sword against the enemy, had a broken
arm, and maybe worse. Secretly, Quentin suspected that it was worse, that
his injured arm was more severely damaged than the broken bone. It had
been a long time since he had felt any sensation in the arm at all; it seemed
numb, dead.
  He did not speak of his suspicion to anyone. Not even Durwin, on the
night when his arm was reset and bound properly, knew that he had felt
nothing at all, for he had grimaced and moaned—mostly out of nervous
fear—as if it had him him a great deal There was something seriously
wrong with his arm; he was forced to face it now when all the talk of
swords and prophecy filled the night.
  As he mulled this unhappy fact over in his head, the thought occurred to
him that perhaps he was not the one after all—not the mighty Priest King
foretold in the legends. Perhaps the Most High had never intended for him
to be the one; it was to be some other as yet unknown.
  Unexpectedly the thought sent a wave of relief through Quentin’s frame.
Yes, of course, that was it. One could not very well wield the fabled sword
without an arm to do so. The prophecy, if it were to remain true, pointed to
another. Perhaps Eskevar was the one favored by the prophecy—he was
King, after all the old oracle’s prophecy had said that a king must wield
the sword. That settled it.
  When at last they arose to take themselves off to their beds, Durwin
came near to Quentin and said, “You were very quiet this night, my young
man. Why?”
  “Do we not have enough to trouble us, Durwin?”
  “Aye, more than enough. But I perceived this to be a vexation of a
different sort.” Inchkeith approached them now with a light burning
brightly in a finely-made lamp. Durwin accepted it and said, “We will find
our own way, good sir. Thank you. You need have no further trouble on
our account.”
  “The trouble, sir, is just beginning!” Inchkeith laughed. “But I have
chosen long ago on whose side I will stand. Get your rest, gentlemen. I
will be ready to join you on your journey in the morning.”
  “So it is. We will leave as soon as may be. But not until after we have
dined once more at your excellent table.”
  “It is a welcome change from Toli’s seeds and berries,” joked Quentin.
“But we will not wish to linger overlong.”
  “Strange, I have never known you to refuse a mouthful,” quipped Toli,
who had awakened and now came to stand with them. “The rain will stop
before morning, but the stream will rise through the night. I shall go out at
daybreak to see if it be passable.”
  “No need, sir. By morning the flood will have eased. It always does.
Have no fear. We will start our journey dry tomorrow, at least. And do not
trouble about your horses. I will have all in readiness tomorrow. My sons
will see to it. Now good night.”
  Inchkeith, taking up the candle on the table, hobbled across the darkened
hall, the sphere of light going before him like a guiding star.
  “A most extraordinary man,” said Durwin.
  “Most extraordinary,” agreed Quentin. And they all shuffled off to their
beds where they were enchanted into sleep by the distant sound of rain on
the stones of Whitehall.



                      THIRTY-SIX
   THE MASSIVE palace ship of Nin the Destroyer, Immortal Deity,
Supreme Emperor, Conqueror of Continents, King of Kings, rocked in the
gentle swell. The waves rose and fell like the rhythmic breathing of an
enormous sea beast. They slapped against the broad beams of the palace
ship’s sides and made soft gurgling noises along the mighty keel.
   The ship was square-hulled with three towering masts and two great
rudders amidships. It was truly a seagoing palace, outfitted with costly
timbers and exotic trappings from the various countries Nin had subdued.
The decks were of teak and rosewood from the Haphasian Islands. Brass
fittings, which gleamed like red gold from every corner, came from
Deluria and the Beldenlands of the east. Silks and shimmering samite
fluttered from delicate screens on deck and in the honeycombed quarters
below; these had come from Pelagia. Thick braided rope and the vast blue
sails were made in Katah out of materials procured in Khas-I-Quair.
   The ship itself had been built in the shipyards of Tarkus under the
direction of master Syphrian shipbuilders. Its makers had anticipated every
necessity, foreseen all desires of the ship’s chief inhabitant and had
accommodated them in ingenious ways. Nin lacked nothing aboard his
ship that would satisfy his many voracious appetites.
   The ship rode low in the water. The slightest swell could rock it gently,
but a raging tempest could not overturn it. And if it moved slowly and
ponderously, like its master, what of that? Time meant nothing to the
Immortal Nin.
   The Emperor of Emperors lay stretched upon a bed of silk cushions
listening to the even breathing of the sea, rocking with the slight roll of the
deck. His immense bulk heaved and swayed dangerously, now tossed one
way, now the next. The motion was making him feel ill and irritated. With
each movement of the ship his huge, oxlike head lolled listlessly, dull eyes
staring outward in mounting misery.
   Nin, with a supreme effort of will, propped himself up on one elbow and
grasped a mallet which hung on a golden thong near his head. With a
backward flip of his wrist the mallet crashed into a gong of hammered
bronze. As the reverberating summons filled the room, he collapsed back
onto the pillows with a moan, dragging one huge paw across his forehead
in a gesture of enormous suffering.
   In a moment a timid voice could be heard, muffled as it was by its
owner’s supine posture, saying, “You have summoned me, O Mighty
One? What is your command?”
   Nin, with an effort, turned his head to regard the pathetic form of his
minister. “Uzla, you lowest of dogs! What kept you? I have been waiting
for hours. I shall have you flayed alive to teach you haste.” The large eyes
closed sleepily.
   “May I say, Your Omnipotence, that I regret my tardiness and the
blindness which prevented me from anticipating your summons. Still, I
was but two steps away and now am here to do your bidding.”
   “Arrogant swine!” roared Nin, coming to life. “I should have you lick
the decks clean with your festering tongue for presuming to address me
so.”
   “As you wish, Most Generous Master. I will obey.” Uzla made a move
as if to leave and begin scouring the decks of the palace ship.
   “I will tell you when to go and when to come. Did I not summon you?
Hear me.”
   “Yes, Immortal One.” Uzla’s voice trembled appropriately.
  “Has there been no word from my warlords?”
  “I regret to inform Your Highness that there has been no such word. But
as you yourself probably know, there is perhaps a message on the way
even now.”
  “Nin does not wait for messages. Nin knows all! You fool!”
  “It is my curse, Great One. You would do me kindness to have my
tongue torn out.”
  Nin rolled himself up on his elbow once more and teetered there like a
mountain ready to topple at the slightest touch. “Shall I send for your
chair-bearers, Supreme Conqueror? They shall hoist you to your feet.”
  “I grow weary of waiting, Uzla.” The sleepy eyes narrowed slyly. “I do
not wish to remain here anymore.”
  “Perhaps you desire to be somewhere else, Master of Time and Space.
Shall I make your desires known to your commander?”
  “I have been patient with this desolate country long enough. The
conquest is taking far too long.” One pudgy hand rubbed a sleek jowl with
impatience. “We will go up the coast to the north to make ready to enter
Askelon, my new city. I have spoken. Hear and obey.”
  “It shall be done, Master. I will tell the commander to set sail at once.”
  “I feel like a common thief,” growled Lord Wertwin under his breath. “I
would much rather lead the mounted assault of the camp.
  “We have been all through that, my lord,” Theido explained patiently.
“Ronsard is better suited than either of us for such duty. He has experience
in the Goliah wars to aid him.”
  “I was in the Goliah wars, too,” whined Wertwin.
  “Yes, of course, However, before this night is through, and before our
campaign is ended, we will both be thankful for Ronsard’s bold blade. I
will tell you plainly that I would not welcome a ride into the camp of the
Ningaal.”
  “Hmph!” Wertwin snorted. He trudged off to his appointed station with
his men, now armed with longbows and arrows and hidden in a brushy
hollow.
  The army of the Dragon King, such as it was, had been training with
their new weapons and reclaiming rusty skills. They were now ready to try
them in combat with the Ningaal and had, with extreme care and cunning,
moved to within a stone’s throw from the camp of their enemy. The
archers lay hidden behind trees and bushes, in hollows of furze and within
gorse hedges. Despite the grumbling which had accompanied the
announcement of the proposed change in tactics, there was a tingling of
excitement in the air as the men readied themselves for the ambush.
   “Theido, are your archers in place?” asked Ronsard, bending to whisper
from his saddle. It was very late; the moon was low in the western sky,
slightly above the horizon. The knight’s face shone faintly, but his features
were barely discernible.
   “They are.” The two men looked at one another briefly. Theido reached
a hand out and gripped his friend by the arm. “Take no undue risks. This
business is risky enough.”
   “Do not worry. Surprise is on our side—this once, at least.”
   “The Most High God goes with you, my friend.”
   Ronsard cocked his head slightly. “Do you suppose he cares about such
things as this?”
   “Yes, I believe he does. Why do you ask?”
   “Well, I have never prayed to a god before a battle. I did not consider it
meet to invoke the aid of heavenly powers in earthly strife. It is man’s
fight and should be settled by man’s own hands.”
   “The Most High is concerned with the well-being of his servants. By his
hand alone are we upheld in all we do.”
   Ronsard straightened in the saddle, pulled the reins back and wheeled
his steed around. “I have much to learn about this new god, Theido. I hope
that I may have time to learn it!”
   The knight returned to the place where his men were waiting, already
mounted and eager to be about their task. He glanced around at all of
them, checking each one for readiness. In order to move more quickly in
the saddle and more nimbly, Ronsard had required his raiders to don only
hauberk and breastplate, leaving the rest of their armor behind. They each
carried their long swords and a small tear-shaped buckler upon their
forearms.
   Ronsard nodded, completing his inspection. “For honor! For glory! For
Mensandor!”
   With that he turned and led his men into the wooded grove wherein the
Ningaal lay encamped.
   Theido saw his friend disappear into the darkened wood; he thought he
saw his right hand raised in salute. The fifteen horses and men, Ronsard’s
bravest, slipped into the darkness. Theido offered a prayer for them as they
passed, and then he took his place, sword in hand.
  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.
   “How far from here are the lost mines?” asked Quentin after they had
ridden for some time in silence. Durwin rode just ahead; he cast a
backward look over his shoulder and laughed. “If anyone knew that, my
friend, there would be no need of going. The lanthanil would be long gone
by now.”
   “You know what I mean, you old sorcerer!” shouted Quentin back.
   “So it is! How impatient you are. I think that before ten suns have set we
will look upon the entrance to the lost mines of the Ariga. That is, if the
mountains are not greatly altered since those maps were made. Just the
same, it will be no easy task to find them.”
   “We have the riddle,” reminded Quentin.
   “Yes, there is that. But you know as well as I that riddles are meant to
conceal as much as they reveal. We will have a time of it, I think. The
Most High will have to show us very plainly.”
   Inchkeith had been listening and now turned toward them and said,
“You know, Durwin, the first time we met you were gabbling about these
lost mines of yours. You were full of questions about the lanthanil; you
wanted to know if I had ever seen it or worked with it. Do you
remember?”
   “I remember it well. And I also remember your answer, though you may
not. You looked at me with the greatest pity and said, ‘If I had ever
touched the metal of the gods, do you think I would still wear the cloak of
a hunchback?’
   “Mine was a foolish question, I admit. But you must remember I had
only discovered the existence of lanthanil and knew nothing of its full
properties.”
   Inchkeith smiled strangely. “Craftsmen like myself have our own tales
of lanthanil, though how much truth is in them I cannot tell.”
   “I have on rare occasions heard the Elders speak of the lanthanil,” said
Quentin. “To the Ariga, it was prized more highly than gold or silver. The
craftsmen who worked it were almost treated as priests. But I never heard
it referred to as a healing agent.”
   “Khoen Navish,” Toli reminded him. Quentin turned to see that Toli had
dropped back and was now riding beside him, intent upon the
conversation.
   “Yes, the Healing Stones.”
   Durwin looked quizzical and said, “Can you not guess the answer?”
Quentin frowned and thought and at last shrugged. “Well, think but a
moment,” replied the hermit. “The Ariga had no need of healing from any
ailment. They lived in perfect health and never fell to disease, and none
were ever reported to have been injured in any way. Healing is not
mentioned as a property of the stone, although they probably knew about
it if Toli’s story is true. Its healing properties were seldom mentioned
because they had no need of it for themselves.
   “As for the craftsmen being priests, they were—of a sort. The Ariga
craftsmen were skilled in every art; they were poets, you might say. They
worked in metal, wood and stone as our poets work with words. And to
the Ariga it was reckoned as almost the same thing. I say almost because
the Ariga rejoiced in a thing well-made, for even in the smallest utensils of
everyday life they saw the face of the Most High. So craftsmen were
priests in that they allowed the people to see something of their god in the
objects around them. And they were greatly respected.”
  No more was spoken for a long time. Quentin rode along and thought
about Dekra and realized he missed his friends there; he wondered what
they were doing and whether they missed him as well. He also wondered
what Yeseph would say if he knew that his protégé was now embarked
upon a quest for the lost mines of the Ariga. What would Yeseph say if he
knew Quentin was to play a role in the forging of the Zhaligkeer?
  Eskevar slouched in his thronelike chair. His gaunt visage showed his
displeasure quite openly. The lords of Mensandor, now gathered before
him, clenched their fists at their sides and scowled determinedly.
  “What of the others, my lords?” asked Eskevar, making no attempt to
moderate the malice in his voice. “Do they propose to sit round the field
and join in the slaughter with whichever side carries the day?”
  “We know not what other lords propose to do, Sire,” said Lord Benniot
in measured tones. “But we have come to offer you our swords and those
of our knights. We will ride with the Dragon King.”
  “To the death, if need be,” added Lord Rudd. “By Azrael, I win not see
my King do battle alone while I have a blade beside me. My men are
yours, Sire.”
  “And mine!” said another. The others declared their loyalty also.
  “Well done, my lords,” said Eskevar at last. Though he did well
appreciate the decision of these, his loyal nobles, the King was inflamed
against those—a sizable party lead by Ameronis and Lupollen—who had,
after two days of heated contention, remained unmoved in their decision to
withhold support for what they considered the King’s war.
  “We will go at once to muster and arm our troops. We will march hence
as soon as may be.” Lord Fincher placed his hand to the hilt of his short
sword as he spoke. “It will be a pleasure to ride beside the Dragon King
again.”
  “It will be no pleasure, my lords. Make no mistake!” said Eskevar
slowly and carefully. “I believe this will be the utmost test of our might
and endurance. If we fail, the world will grow dark. Freedom will die.”
  “Then let us fly, Your Majesty. We will return in three days,” said Lord
Rudd. “And we will march out with you to meet Theido and Ronsard and
Wertwin’s men in the field.”
  “Yes, fly at once. And remember, my lords, spare nothing. If we fail
there will be nothing left worth claiming in the end. I will speak again to
the others to see if my words may yet prevail upon them to change their
decision. We will need every strong arm before this war is over, I fear.
  “Be on your way. I will await you here, ready to march at once.”
  There was a rustle of fine brocaded clothing as the nobles bowed as one
and went out, each to ride with his train to his lands and there to prepare
for war.
  When they had gone Eskevar called for Oswald and said, “Fetch me the
armorer. I will speak with him at once.”
  Oswald appeared doubtful and frowned deeply, his old features
crinkling up into a web of lines and creases.
  “Do not look at me so! Fetch the armorer at once, I say!”
  Without reply the chamberlain bowed and went out. In a little while
there was a knock on the King’s chamber door. Oswald came in, followed
by a swarthy man with muscles that bulged and rippled as he moved.
  “Tilbert, Sire.” Oswald presented the man and left without looking at the
King.
  “Tilbert,” the King said. The man nodded and remained at attention, his
face stern and alert. “Ready my armor and my weapons. I will need both
soon—within three days. Ready yourself and any tools you think best; you
will be needing them.”
  At that moment the chamber door swung open without a knock, and
Queen Alinea came into the room. Tilbert bowed to the Queen.
  “My Lord,” said the Queen with a curtsy. She was slightly out of breath.
“Why is this man here?” She indicated Tilbert, who looked puzzled.
  “I am speaking with him.”
  “And about what I can guess. My husband, certainly you do not
entertain any false notions of going into battle!”
  The King moved to dismiss Tilbert with a quick wave of his hand. The
armorer bowed from the waist and started out.
  “Wait!” said the Queen. She turned once more to the King and fixed him
with a smoldering stare. “Durwin is gone and so you think that you may
now do as you please, is that it? You are still very weak, Eskevar. Think of
your health.”
  “You may go now, Tilbert,” said Eskevar. The man left the chamber
quietly. Alinea crossed to the King’s chair and fell to her knees beside
Eskevar, seizing his right hand in both of hers.
   “I pray you, my King. Do not go! It will be the death of you!”
   Eskevar scowled furiously at his wife; her actions offended him. “That
rascal Oswald told you.”
   “What does it matter? My darling, you are just up from your sickbed and
you have not your full strength. Wait at least until you feel stronger.”
   Eskevar put a hand to her lovely head and laced his fingers in her hair.
“My Lady, I would that I could stay. But I cannot, nor can I wait one day
longer than it takes to assemble an army to march.”
   “But why? Let your lords serve you in this. Theido and Ronsard would
tell you the same if they were here. They are on the field now; let them
assume command.” The Queen’s voice quivered on the edge of tears.
   “It may not be,” he soothed. “The larger part of the council still opposes
the call to arms that I have sounded. They are not convinced there is
sufficient reason for them to march in war upon the whim of their raving
monarch.
   “Do you not see? They believe me ill and troubled of mind. They think I
joust at shadows. I must go out ahead of my army and convince them I am
fit to command and that my judgment is unimpaired. Maybe then they will
join us. I pray they do before it is too late.”
   “But is there no other way?” Tears ran freely down Alinea’s cheeks and
fell in dark spatters upon her blue gown.
   “I must go. It is the only hope we have,” the Dragon King said gently.
   “Oh, my Lord,” cried Alinea. “It is an evil day that takes you from me
thus.”
   “That it is, my Queen. Most assuredly it is.”



                  THIRTY-EIGHT
  THE WOLF STAR could be seen glinting cold and bright as soon as the
sun slipped below the western rim of the sky. It rose before the other stars
and set last of all. The people of Mensandor, if they had not noticed it
before, now were wary of it. Doom-sayers went from city to city,
spreading rumors of death and destruction and prophesying the end of the
age. The weakminded believed these rumors and fled to the temples,
seeking the shelter of sacred soil where the gods would protect them.
More stouthearted citizens stood their ground and waited and watched.
But all listened to the wind and paused in their daily tasks to lift their eyes
to the far horizon as if they expected at any moment the approach of
something they dared not name aloud.
   Theido and Ronsard, having weakened the army of warlord Gurd, turned
their attention to the army of warlord Luhak, who was advancing at a fast
pace to the north. Arriving late at night, having traveled ten leagues that
day with little rest, the King’s forces struck once more on their midnight
raid. Once again they caught the enemy by surprise and slew many.
   On the next attempt, however, a confused signal almost defeated the
Dragon King’s army. The warlord’s troops were waiting in a wooded draw
and Ronsard’s knights met them. But before Ronsard and company could
disengage and break free, the archers attacked and many good men fell by
friendly hands. The King’s men withdrew from the field, leaving the
Ningaal exultant.
   As for Quentin and his party, the four ascended the empty foothills of
the ragged mountains and labored up into the dismal heights. The way
proved slow and difficult, even with surefooted animals and Durwin’s
knowledge of the more passable routes. They lost their way and spent
three arduous days crossing and recrossing the same trail and finally gave
up, camping that night in the same spot where they had camped three
nights before. One of the pack animals threw a shoe straining over the
rocks and had to be set free. Many supplies were abandoned in order not
to overburden the remaining animal;,
   The dark cloud had deepened its shadow over the land. Mensandor
seemed to be a country quivering on the edge of the abyss. The roads were
filled by day with travelers hurrying from here to there in an effort to find
escape. The temple courtyards became choked with peasants seeking
sanctuary. At the High Temple above Narramoor, the trail leading to the
temple had blossomed into a tent city from the base of the plateau to its
crown. All along its narrow length people huddled in their tents and
waited for what they had been told would come: the destroyer god,
descending to earth to slake his thirst with their blood. And each night, all
over Mensandor, men watched the star grow brighter and cowered in fear
at the impending destruction thus proclaimed.
   Steadily, despite Theido’s and Ronsard’s best efforts and most valiant
and courageous fighting, the Ningaal drove further north toward Askelon.
The King’s knights were solidly outnumbered and the enemy soon grew
wary of the crafty defenders’ tricks, becoming more and more difficult to
lure into traps and ambushes.
   On and on the enemy pushed and at last achieved the very thing the
Dragon King’s army feared the most: the four warlords joined their forces.
The soldiers of Boghaz and Amut forged through to meet Gurd’s remnant
and Luhak’s fairly intact regiment at the outer fringes of Pelgrin Forest.
No invader had ever pushed so far inland in recent memory. No enemy
had ever defied the Dragon King’s knights as did the Ningaal, whose
combined forces shamed the stalwart defenders.
   Under Myrmior’s inspired strategy, the Dragon King’s army fell back
into the forest to wage a war of ambush and retreat among the paths they
knew so well. This increased the rage of the enemy and that rage induced
him to make mistakes and lose men. But the relentless push to Askelon
continued, slowly and surely and with mechanical precision. It seemed as
if nothing would stop the cunning invader.
   “We cannot continue this way,” said Theido wearily. It was the end of
another long day of sting-and-run among the oaks of Pelgrin. The
commanders sat in Ronsard’s tent, ashen-faced in the fluttering torchlight.
“We are giving up too much ground, even though our losses in men are
lower than we could have hoped, thanks to Myrmior.
   “I think it is time to send word to Askelon for the King to make ready
for a siege. Though I hoped it would not come to this, they should begin
preparing the castle for our return.”
   “It would seem that in time we could beat these Ningaal if we but had
more men,” observed Ronsard. “Could we not send Wenwin to the other
lords to entreat them to take up arms? Now is the time if ever there was.
They cannot fail to recognize the danger now.”
   “I quite agree with you, brave sir. But I hold no hopes of persuading
those jackals to join us. They have had every opportunity. Why, we are but
ten leagues from Askelon now!”
   “Even so,” Lord Wertwin offered, “allow me to ride to Ameronis and
the others. They are not cowardly men and will be reasonable once they
know the need. I will bring them around.”
   “Go then, my lord. Do what you can. But go with all speed. There is
little time left. Each day we are pushed further back.”
   The nobleman stood and, though weary to the marrow and reeling on his
feet, said, “I will leave tonight and take but two of my own with me. The
others I will place under Ronsard’s command.” With a quick bow he left,
and the others returned once more to their nightly exercise led by
Myrmior, who listened intently to the reports of the day’s forays and then
applied himself to creating some new strategy for the next day. He seemed
to have a gift for anticipating the movements of the enemy and for
diversions and surprises which allowed the King’s men to hound and harry
the plodding Ningaal.
   “From what you have told me,” Myrmior said, gazing at the mapskin
before him, “the Ningaal have tightened their divisions and march with a
vanguard of their fiercest warriors. That is good; it means our raids are
starting to worry them. But it also means they will be much harder to trap
and impossible to ambush from now on.”
   “As if it were not difficult already,” said Ronsard. “I believe our time of
nibbling away at the enemy’s strength is at an end. Yet we dare not meet
them face to face. If we could be assured of fresh troops soon...”
   “I cannot think what we may do,” replied Theido. “But you are right.
We cannot charge them with lances or meet them toe to toe as we are
often wont to do. I will defer to Myrmior’s counsel yet a little longer.”
   “Lords, you flatter me. I have no secrets here, and I freely tell what I
know so that you will know just how perilous is our position. It is very
grave for us, my brave friends. I do not see a weakness that we may
exploit; they have countered all our tricks this time.”
   He looked again at the map, head bent down, eyes red-rimmed from
sleepless nights of studying and pondering the movements of the foe as
reported to him by the assembled commanders.
   “How far are we from this river?” he said, stabbing his finger at the
map.
   “Let me see,” said Theido. “That is but a branch of the Arvin which lies
two or three leagues away to the west. It is not so large as it appears on the
map, I assure you.”
   “Nevertheless, I have found a plan which may gain us but a little more
time.” Myrmior smiled triumphantly. “A very subtle plan.”
                    THIRTY-NINE
   THE COLD WIND whipping off the sharp snags of rock stung
Quentin’s face, and the howl deafened him as it ravaged the bare peaks
and screamed down into endless empty places. He kept his cloak turned up
to cover his ears and wished that he had brought warmer clothing. Though
only four days had passed since they had reached the higher elevations of
the Fiskills, it now seemed ages since he had felt the warmth of the sun
and seen the green of summer-filled hills. In every direction, wherever he
turned his eyes, he saw the same thing: an infinite vista of jagged gray and
white peaks jutting sharply against a pale blue sky.
   Each day was much the same: cold and windy without respite. At night
they camped under a star-filled sky on ledges, in crevices and fissures out
of the wind, but the rock was cold and hard. In the morning they awoke to
the harsh, white light of a sun that shed no warmth upon the day—unless
by chance they happened to find a spot hidden from the wind where they
could stop and eat a bite before continuing. Then Quentin would feel a
brief bit of warmth seep into him, tingling on his skin like dancing fire.
   But those respites were rare and never long enough; for Durwin, sinking
more and more into silence and a dour mood, pushed a merciless pace
along the crag-bound trails. The party, at first so full of good will and high
spirits, now dragged along dolefully, each one lost to himself and his own
thoughts, their faces as gray and cheerless as the bare rock around them.
   Quentin’s thoughts turned toward Theido and Ronsard and the battles he
imagined they were waging far away. More than once he wished he could
be there beside them, instead of floundering here, lost in a world of dull
rock and white light and severe blue skies—as often as not clouded with
gray wispy clouds which shredded themselves on the tor and spilled a
damp, chill drizzle to thoroughly quench any spark of hope that they
would see the end of their seemingly endless journey.
   At night he lay awake and watched the dread star bend its fearful beams
through the thin air of the high altitudes. It now filled its quadrant with
light and was the brightest object in the sky at night, save the moon itself.
Quentin even began to believe that the star would grow and grow to
consume the heavens and the earth, that it would eventually touch the
world and set off the conflagration which would prepare the earth for the
new age. These thoughts, and others like them, filled Quentin with a sense
of hopelessness he had never known before. And as the search among the
high rocks continued day after day, he began to think that doom was
certain and that it was already too late to forestall the inevitable.
   One morning Quentin was shaken out of his gloomy reverie by Toli,
who had gone ahead to check on the trail, which threatened to narrow
beyond the ability of horses to maintain their footing.
   He heard a shout, looked up and saw Toli, red-faced with excitement
and the exertion of running, flying down the rock-strewn path.
   “Beautiful” Toli shouted when he was within range. “Come and see it!
A valley...” He puffed breathlessly. “It is wonderful. Come!”
   Instantly Durwin’s face lit. “So it is! I believe we have found it at last!”
   But Durwin was already toiling up the path behind Toli, who sprang
lightly as a mountain goat over the flat slabs of rock pointing and waving
ecstatically.
   Quentin turned to look at Inchkeith. “Well, a fair sight would be
welcome to these burning eyes, I would reckon,” said the hunched
armorer. “Even if it be not our journey’s end.”
   “Then by all means let us view this sight!” replied Quentin sarcastically.
“I would see what could cause such fulsome praise from the ever-quiet
Toli.”
   Inchkeith turned, ignoring Quentin’s comment, and began scuttling over
the rock, barely keeping Toli, now disappearing over the crest, in sight.
Quentin marveled at the deformed armorer’s strength and agility; for in
spite of his misshapen body and hobbling gait, Inchkeith somehow
managed to grapple his way along the most unnerving passages.
   Quentin glumly fell in and began trudging up the steep path, a narrow
cut in the rock formed by a rivulet which carried away the spring melt. By
the time he neared the top, none of the others were to be seen. He reached
the summit and walked a few paces down the opposite slope before he
thought to raise his eyes.
   The sight before him so stunned Quentin, he sat down.
   Across a vast and limitless gulf of silver mist he saw an enormous bowl
rimmed round with snowy peaks like white teeth. And the bowl, with
gently curving sides, was a scintillating mountain green, all soft and
mossy, the color of emeralds when struck by the sunlight. Carving through
the center of the beautiful valley in graceful, sweeping undulation ran a
river gleaming like molten silver, filling a basin at the near end to form a
lake shaped like a spearhead. The lake was deepest blue crystal and
reflected the white-capped peaks rimming the fathomless blue sky above.
   All this Quentin took in moments later. In his first rapturous gaze all he
saw was the awesome splendor of the towering, frothing, magnificent falls
which fed the river and formed the lake. “It is the Falls of Shennydd
Vellyn,” Durwin told him later, “the Falls of the Skylord’s Mirror. The
lake is the mirror, of course, and Sky lord is another name among the
Ariga for—”
   “Whist Orren. I know,” said Quentin in a voice lost in wonder. “I have
heard of Shennydd Vellyn. But I never thought...”
   “Yes,” said Toli quietly, as if he feared to break some spell of
enchantment, “it is hard to believe that such beauty still exists in the world
of men.”
   “Harder still to believe that beyond these forsaken mountains men are
fighting and dying,” said Inchkeith strangely. Of the three he seemed least
affected by the sight before him.
   All that was to come later; now, Quentin was overcome by the most
dramatic vision of natural beauty he had ever seen. The falls plunged in
three great leaps as they poured from some hidden spring in the
mountainside. This was the source of the silvery mist which floated over
all like gossamer and charged the thin air with shimmering radiance as if
rainbows hovered ever within reach.
   Looking down upon it, Quentin could well believe that the Ariga had
once sat where he sat and had seen it as he was seeing it. In that instant he
felt as if the immense barrier of time separating him from that happy time
when the Ariga had walked the earth had been rolled aside. Inexplicably,
the constant longing for a glimpse of that vanished time was suddenly
stilled within his breast. Here it was at last—that which remained from of
old unchanged.
   The next thing Quentin knew he was running down the precipitous grade
toward the crystal lake, laughing and shouting with joy.
   It was a tearful farewell with which Alinea sent Eskevar to meet the
assembled armies of his lords. As much as she wanted to show him a
brave front, she could not. In all her life as Queen she had never sent him
off with tears in her eyes; no matter how much she might have cried for
fear and loneliness later when he had gone, she did not want his last
memory of her to be one of sorrow.
  This time she could not contain her feelings. The tears welled up from
her heart and overflowed to splash down her white cheeks and glisten in
the morning light.
  Eskevar, so used to the bold face his wife had always before maintained,
seemed bewildered by what he considered a sudden change.
  “My Lady, be not forlorn. I shall return as soon as I may. It is nothing
we have not faced before, my love.”
  “I fear it is, my Lord.” She dabbed at the corners of her emerald eyes
with a bit of lace. The King took the handkerchief from her and poked it
down inside his breastplate.
  “I will keep this near my heart so that I will not forget the tears you shed
in my absence. It shall remind me to hurry hence and dry your eyes as
soon as may be.” He lifted a gauntleted hand to smooth her auburn hair
and looked deeply into her eyes. “This will be the last time, Alinea. I
promise you I will never leave you again.”
  She looked at him, standing in the small courtyard of the inner ward just
before the postern gate, and through her tears it seemed as if the years had
been rolled back once more and the young Dragon King was looking
down on her with brightly blazing eyes, eager to be off to defend his
realm.
  “Go, my Lord. But do not say it is the last. For I know that you must
ever be where harm threatens your kingdom. But go and with no regret for
me. Only promise that you will hasten back when your labors have
restored peace to the land.”
  When she had finished speaking, she threw her arms around his neck
and kissed him. He held her stiffly, her soft flesh pressed against his steely
armor. “Farewell, my Queen.”
  She turned and hurried away through the small arched door in the wall.
Eskevar watched her go and then turned to the warder who stood with
averted eyes, holding the reins of his mount. The King ascended the three
stone steps and swung himself into the saddle. The warder dashed to the
iron-clad gate and pushed it open. Outside, the armorer and the King’s
squires were waiting.
  Without a word the King led them through the postern gatehouse, over
the plank and down the long, winding walled ramp which formed the rear
approach to Askelon. They crossed the dry moat and rode out across the
plain to meet the Lords of Mensandor and their assembled armies where
they stood amidst fluttering pennons and glinting steel, waiting for their
King.
   “Yonder comes the Dragon King!” shouted Lord Rudd as he scanned the
plain, eyes squinting in the sun. “Sound the call!”
   A trumpeter raised his battle horn to his lips and blew a long, clear note.
At once a shout went up. “The Dragon King! He is coming! The Dragon
King rides with us!” The knights gathered on the plain rattled their swords
upon their shields in noisy salute and shouted with joy.
   “It is good he comes,” said Lord Benniot, bending close to Rudd. “The
rumors that he was dying had near taken the fighting heart out of my
men.”
   “And mine,” said Lord Fincher riding up. “But now they will see that he
does not hide in his high tower, nor lie wasting abed. By the gods, it is
good to see him astride a horse once more.”
   The three nobles watched their King galloping toward them across the
plain. Behind him his squires carried the billowing standard with the
King’s unmistakable device: the terrible, twisting red dragon. On the crest
of his helm he wore a crown of gold which shone in the sun like a band of
light around his head.
   Eskevar rode into the midst of his army to the cheers of all the knights
and men-at-arms. Such was the clamor of his reception that it was some
time before he could quiet them enough to make himself heard. But at last
the army—more than two thousand in all—grew silent, waiting
expectantly for what he would say.
   “Loyal subjects, men of Mensandor!” More cheers. “Today we march to
meet a great and deadly foe. Messages from those already engaged against
the enemy indicate that he has reached the borders of Pelgrin Forest but
ten leagues to the east.” Murmurs of shock and disbelief rippled through
the throng. “In his wake the enemy has destroyed our towns and villages
and has slain the innocent.” Cries of anger and revenge.
   Eskevar looked out over the upturned faces of the host before him, many
kneeling, their right hands clutching the hilts of their swords. He drew his
own sword and raised it high.
   “For Mensandor!” he called in a bold voice.
  “For Mensandor!” came the clamorous reply.
  “For honor! For glory!” the Dragon King cried.
  “For King and kingdom!” the soldiers answered.
  With his sword pointed to the east Eskevar spurred his horse through the
assembled armies. A way parted before him, bristling with raised swords
and spears, and walled with shields and colorful snapping pennons. Along
this panoply the Dragon King passed to the wild hurrahs of the soldiers.
Behind him the way closed as the knights and footmen took up their
weapons and followed their King into battle.



                             FORTY
  “THIS MAKES the task of getting here worth every step,” said Quentin
happily. He sat on a grassy knob dabbling his bare feet in the cold, clean
water of Shennydd Vellyn. “This is a most fitting reward.” He felt the
weariness of the harsh trail and the fatigue of the seemingly endless days
in the saddle, and then lastly on foot leading the horses, drift away in the
soothing waters. He felt revived.
  “So it is! But we have not yet found the mines, though I believe we are
at last at a place to begin looking.” The hermit was bent once more over
his maps and scribbles, searching for a clue to a sign which might spark
the discovery.
  Toli strode up, buoyant and brimming with good cheer, fairly
intoxicated with the beauty around him. “I have set the horses free to
graze. Look at them run!”
  Indeed, the horses were gamboling like colts in the balmy air of the
great bowl of a valley. They galloped and bucked and pranced over soft,
thick turf as green as the first delicate blades of spring.
  “We shall have a time of it trying to catch them again,” mumbled
Inchkeith. Quentin and Toli looked at each other. He had been mumbling
darkly ever since they discovered the enchanted valley. While their spirits
had risen on wings of joy, his seemed to have fallen lower by equal
degrees. He was now quite sour.
  “Do not worry on it, master Inchkeith. They will come running to Toli’s
whistle without fail. He has a power over them, you will see.” Inchkeith
said nothing, turning his face away.
  “Now, then,” said Durwin, “listen to me. Here is the riddle once more.
Think, now!

         “Over tooth and under claw
         mend your way with care.
         When mountains sleep, sharp vigil keep,
         you shall see the way most dear.

         When you hear laughter among the clouds
         and see a curtain made of glass
         Take no care for hand nor hair,
         or you shall surely never pass.

         Part the curtain, divide the thunder
         and seek the narrow way;
         Give day for night and withhold the light
         And you have won the day.”

   Durwin looked at all of them, blinking back at them dumbly. “Well,” he
sighed with exasperation. “As I thought. It is not so simple now, is it?
Now that the time has come to solve the mystery—”
   “Past time, if you ask me!” said Inchkeith sharply. “It is folly to roam
these wasted rocks chasing a dream. Look at us! We are up here babbling
like children over riddles and nonsense. Down there”—his hand flung
wide in a gesture of anger and frustration— “down there men are dying.
The blood of good men runs hot upon the ground while we putter among
the clouds.”
   Quentin’s brow wrinkled and his eyes narrowed as he listened,
somewhat shocked by the armorer’s denunciation of their quest.
   At last Durwin spoke, breaking the silence that had fallen over them
with Inchkeith’s rancorous outburst. “Could we serve them better by
taking up swords and throwing ourselves into the fight? Would our blades
matter very much, do you think?”
  “Does this matter? This riddle guessing, breaking our bones over these
accursed mountains? For what?”
  “I thought you were with us, Inchkeith,” put in Quentin. “I thought you
believed as we did in the importance of our journey. You did! I know you
did.”
  “Maybe I did once. But I have had time to think. It was a mistake to
come here; I do not belong here. I should be back at my forge and anvil.
There is a war on, by the gods!”
  Then Durwin, speaking softly as to a child, said a surprising thing. “Do
not be afraid, Inchkeith. To others it is appointed to fight, and yes, to die.
To us it is appointed to find the sword and bring it to the King. And if
there is even the slightest chance that the sword will be the Zhaligkeer, I
believe our efforts could not be better spent than in searching for it, though
the whole world wade in blood.”
  Do not be afraid.
  The words struck deep into Quentin’s heart. Yes, that was it. Inchkeith
was afraid of failing, of never finding the lost mines. Perhaps he was even
more afraid of succeeding, and forging the legend-bound sword, afraid of
believing the prophecy could come true. Better for him not to put it to the
test. And this was the way of Quentin’s heart, as well.
  Quentin, at first swept up in the excitement of great deeds and the
promise of glory, had with growing reluctance come to view the enterprise
as possessing little merit insofar as he himself was concerned. It was one
thing to dream about being the long-awaited Priest King, but quite another
to actually set off in search of the means to make that dream a reality. The
aura of mystic fantasy had evaporated on the trail in the howling of the
wind and in sleepless nights on the cold barren rock under the glare of
distant unfriendly stars. And with every step that led him closer to the
promise, he had grown more afraid.
  Do not be afraid.
  Although the words had been meant for Inchkeith, they stirred in
Quentin a peculiar swirl of emotions. He wanted all at once to scream at
Durwin, Why should I not be afraid? I have every good reason. I never
asked to be this new king upon whose shoulders the world will rest. I
never wanted it.
  But Quentin said nothing. He turned his face away and looked out across
the sparkling water of the Skylord’s Mirror.
  That night they camped beside the lake, the white-topped peaks to the
east glowing rosily across the green bowl, which was now immersed in
shadows of deepest indigo. The Wolf Star burned fiercely in the sky and
was reflected in the crystalline depths of Shennydd Vellyn.
  Quentin sat alone—silent, brooding. He stirred only when the light tread
of Durwin’s feet signaled the hermit’s presence. “So it is!” said the hermit,
his voice seeming to resonate on the water. “You have come to it at last.”
  Quentin regarded him with a questioning glance. Durwin, gathering his
robes, squatted down beside him. “You have come to that dark and narrow
place through which every servant of the Most High must pass.”
  Quentin flipped a pebble into the lake. “I do not know what I have come
to.”
  “Oh yes you do. And that is what is bothering you. It has been gnawing
at you ever since we left Askelon. It was worrying you that night at
Inchkeith’s. I saw it then most clearly. I even spoke to you of it, but you
evaded my question.”
  “Is it not possible that we may all be wrong about this prophecy? If you
ask me, I am not the one. And if I were, would I not know it somehow?”
  “Yes, perhaps we are mistaken. It is possible we have misread the signs.
But whether you are the one or no does not matter very much.”
  Quentin cocked his head sharply; he had not expected the hermit to say
that. “No,” Durwin continued. “What does matter is whether you are
willing to follow the Most High, even in your unbelief.”
  “I—I do not know what you mean.”
  “Certainly you do. All your life you have served the gods in one way or
another. Of the old gods you soon learned only to demand those things
which they were capable of providing—an insignificant sign or two, a
small favor vaguely asked. Then you met Whist Orren, the Most High
God, the One True God of All. You have served him faithfully these many
years and have learned much about his ways. But now is the first time you
have ever really had to trust in him, to place yourself totally in his will,
and you are afraid.”
  Quentin started to object, but Durwin held up his hands. “Yes, afraid.
You must now put your faith to the test. And such a test!— with lost
mines and flaming swords and prophecies fulfilled.”
   “Why should I fear that?”
   “The reason is not so hard to guess. It is the same with every man. You
fear testing your faith, because it means testing the Most High. Deep in
your heart you fear he will fail. If he fails, you are utterly alone in this life
and beyond; there is nothing you can believe in anymore.”
   Quentin shook his head. “No, Durwin. That is not my fear.”
   “Tell me, then.”
   Quentin drew a deep breath, glanced at the hermit and then quickly
away again. “I am afraid of being the Priest King. I cannot say why, but
the mere mention of swords and mines fills me with dread. Look at my
arm! How can I wield the Shining One with an arm as dead as firewood?”
   “It is the same thing in the end, is it not? You fear to accept something
the Most High has chosen for you.”
   “How is that the same thing?”
   “Most assuredly it is. To accept the crown of Priest King would mean
placing your trust totally in the Most High. It means that you must trust
him to know what is best for you, to know you better than you know
yourself. It would mean trusting him beyond all trust, even when the way
is unclear—especially when the way is unclear.
   “When you trust like that, you necessarily test the god’s ability to hold
you and keep you. You are—we all are—unwilling to make such demands
of our gods. If we trust but little, we will be disappointed but little, eh?”
   “If I do not believe, but follow anyway, does that not mock the Most
High and defeat his will?”
   “On the contrary, my friend. To follow without seeing the end—in
unbelief as you say—is really the highest form of trust.”
   “It is but blind trust,” objected Quentin. The words of the hermit were
making sense to him, but he still felt as if he must fight acceptance.
   “Not blind trust. Not at all. Those who trust the powerless gods of earth
and sky—they trust blindly.
   “Quentin, look at me,” the hermit commanded gently. “You cannot
serve the Most High without trusting him totally, for there always comes a
time when he will put you to the test. He will have all of you or nothing at
all. There can be no middle ground. It is a demand that he makes of his
followers.”
  Both men were quiet for a moment. The great bowl of the valley had
deepened into violet dusk. The western peaks still held the faint glimmer
of flame at their summits, but that too was dying fast.
  “Look at it this way,” said Durwin. “Why should you be afraid to test
the Most High? He invites it! You see your injured arm as proof against
his will. Cannot the one who created bones also heal them? And if he
chooses to raise an orphan acolyte to the crown of the realm, what is to
stop him?”
  Quentin smiled at the appellation. “You mean that I should go along
with this strange business regardless of my own feelings about it.”
  “Exactly. Do not seek to hide your doubts and fears, or mask them in
any way. Give them to him. Let him take them. They are, after all, part of
you.”
  Quentin thought for a long time and then said, “What did you mean
earlier when you told Inchkeith not to be afraid?”
  Durwin smiled. “More or less what I am telling you now. We must not
fear for the Most High; he can take care of himself. We must only look to
ourselves that we remain faithful to his call. I know it is much to think
about in one piece. It has taken me many years to understand these things,
and I am asking you to comprehend them in but a few moments.
  “Inchkeith does not know the Most High, but he is not an ignorant man.
He still feels the fear of believing that something so good and so powerful
can exist. And that, as I said before, is the place where most men turn
aside.
  “But if you go beyond your fears and doubts, and follow anyway—ah!
Strange and wonderful things can happen. Yes, orphans can become kings,
swords can sprout flames and great enemies can be laid low at a stroke.”
  Quentin did not hear when Durwin left him, so lost in thought was he.
But upon looking up into the night sky, now alive with blazing stars, he
knew he was alone. His thoughts roiled and swarmed inside him; and
rather than soothing his troubled spirit, Darwin’s words had only served to
increase the confusion—or so it seemed.
  Quentin lay down and wrapped himself in his cloak to watch the
glittering stars and to ponder the words of the hermit. He lay for a long
time thinking and then slowly drifted into a troubled sleep. As he lay
beside the glass-smooth Shennydd Vellyn he dreamed a dream filled with
things both strange and wonderful.
                      FORTY-ONE
  THE MUDDY little tributary which Myrmior had indicated on the map
lay across the path of the advancing Ningaal. It was, as Theido had
advised, not a particularly large stream, but it was deep and lay below
steep root-bound banks in a most dense part of Pelgrin. If anyone ever
spoke of it at all it was called Deorkenrill, because of the air of darkness
and gloom which surrounded it. Its gray and turgid waters slid quietly
along a serpentine course through noisome bog and stagnant pools full of
various unsavories, until at last it emptied into the mighty Arvin many
leagues to the north.
  As unwholesome as it was, it was at this very place that Myrmior
proposed that the army of the Dragon King make a final stand to try and
halt the invaders’ inexorable drive toward Askelon.
  The plan was simple, designed to separate the amassed Ningaal into
smaller groups which could be battled more effectively by the defenders.
But like most strategems of war, Myrmior’s plan was not without its
element of risk. The weary defenders closed their eyes to the danger,
thinking that as it was likely to be their last hope of stopping the Ningaal
before they reached the plains of Askelon, no risk was too great.
  For many leagues to the north and south there was only one fit place for
an army to cross Deorkenrill: a hollow at the bottom of a slight hill where
the stream flattened out slightly to form a natural ford.
  “This is better than I could have hoped,” said Myrmior when he saw it.
“It was made for our purpose.”
  “Well,” remarked Theido casting an eye around the wood in the
gathering dusk, “it is not a place where I would willingly choose to do
battle. Let us hope that the Ningaal think the same and do not suspect an
ambush here.”
  “They have become wary indeed. Their scouts now push far afield and
ahead of the main body and are harder to elude,” pointed out Ronsard.
“And Theido is right. This is no place to do battle. Look around you. Mud,
trees, vines. A man can hardly draw his sword.”
  “Brave sirs, that is precisely why this place is best suited for us. Whether
they suspect or no, they must cross this water. I propose to make it as
difficult as possible. But we must get busy. There is much to be done
before first light tomorrow. We will need to work through the night.”
   “Very well,” said Theido resolutely. “We have had our say, and we have
no better plan. We put ourselves at your command. What will you have us
do?”
   Myrmior looked around him in the misty twilight. A malodorous vapor
was rising from the swampy dingles along Deorkenrill’s banks to drift
slowly among the gray boles of trees.
   “There!” He pointed out into the hollow through which the enemy must
march to the stream. “We will begin by opening a channel into the hollow.
We will fill it tonight and drain it in the morning. The mud should be very
thick by then. And have some men start carrying water to the far bank. I
would have that slippery with mud as well.”
   And so they began. Though they had come unprepared for excavating
and carrying water, the Dragon King’s forces turned whatever implements
they had to the task. Knights, more at home on horseback than on firm
ground, slogged tirelessly through mud and stinking water, digging with
their noble swords or with bare hands, cutting a channel to bring water to
the hollow. They worked by the glimmering of torches, listening to the
forlorn cries of owls and other creatures drawn by the unnatural activity.
   Others climbed the taller trees along either side of the bank and began
building platforms of branches and limbs from which archers could rain
arrows down upon the enemy. Ropes were wound with vines and stretched
from one tree to another. And for Myrmior’s supreme surprise, three of the
largest trees growing at the edge of the near bank were chopped to within
inches of falling and their upper branches were tied with ropes to other
nearby trees to support them. Then the axe marks were covered over and
filled in with mud and leaves.
   This activity continued through the night and by the time the sky,
glimpsed through irregular patches overhead, began lightening, Theido,
Ronsard and Myrmior stood on the far bank looking at their handiwork.
   “All that remains is to drain the hollow once more. And, we will need
hot coals to use with the arrows,” said Myrmior, very pleased with what
he saw.
   “Then we wait. We should have a few hours to give the men rest before
the first of the Ningaal come through here,” observed Ronsard.
   “I am for it. We have done a labor this night. Let us pray that it has been
to good purpose,” replied Theido in a voice strained and rasping from
shouting orders through the midnight hours. “We will do what remains
and then deploy our men to their appointed places.”
   So saying, the lords turned at once to finish their tasks. Then, as the dun
light of morning filtered down into the murky dell, all fell silent. All was
ready and there was not the barest hint that everything was not as it should
be, that it was not all it seemed. An army waited among the ferns and in
the trees and behind the turfy hillocks and was invisible.
   The first of the Ningaal to come through the hollow were the scouts.
They crossed the ford and passed on unaware of the army lying in wait on
either hand. The next to pass were rank upon rank of horsemen, and just as
Myrmior had hoped, the horses churned the hollow into a mud pit and
made the far bank, already slick with the muck Ronsard’s men had
created, a treacherous slide. But they, too, passed on unaware.
   Tension seeped into the air. Theido could not understand why the enemy
did not feel it, too. His stomach was knotted, and his nerves felt stretched
as tight as bowstrings. Though he could not see them from where he
hunched among the musty ferns, he knew his men must feel the same.
Willing himself to remain calm, he waited.
   The sun arched to midday when the first of the footmen started across
the ford. Hundreds of men, line upon line, waded through the waist-deep
water and slithered up the far bank with difficulty. Theido could see them
as they poured into the hollow and noted with satisfaction that the soldiers
moved more slowly now as the mire deepened and sucked at their feet.
   He heard a sound and a swift shout, and suddenly a horse and rider
appeared at the edge of the ford. It was a warlord on his black steed, and
Theido could tell that he was unhappy with the time it was taking his
soldiers to cross the stream. Without understanding the crude language at
all, Theido knew that he was ordering his men to move along quickly; it
was exactly what he would have done in the same situation.
   The warlord sat straight in the saddle and looked long up and down
Deorkenrill. Theido held his breath. Had the warlord spotted something
amiss? Was their trap discovered?
   But the grim lord swung his horse around and shouted once more to the
scores of footmen trudging through the fen. Then he plunged through the
stream and disappeared on the other side.
   Nin’s soldiers were crossing in masses now, a hundred at a time. They
staggered muddily to the ford and plunged in, then flung themselves up
the far bank like fish flopping out of water.
   Another warlord appeared, surrounded by twenty horsemen. He waited,
as the other had, watching the men cross the stream, and then splashed
across.
   The forest echoed to the sound of something ponderous and heavy
crashing through the underbrush. The wagons! thought Theido. Get ready!
   The wagons were what they had been waiting for. According to
Myrmior’s knowledge of the movements of the Ningaal, they most often
traveled with their weapons and supplies in the wagons, half of their
troops going before and the rest after. It was the second half of the Ningaal
host which the defenders would attack.
   Theido peered cautiously through the man-high ferns to see the first of
the heavy wains mired nearly to its axles in the hollow, now trampled into
a swampy bog by the hundreds of feet of men and horses which had
passed before. Around each wheel twenty or so footmen grunted and
strained to push the wagon along, and the four-horse team leaned into
harness to the cracking whip of the driver.
   Theido’s hand sought the hilt of his sword. He knew that even now a
thousand arrows were being notched to their strings in anticipation of the
signal that would not be long delayed. Each archer readied his cannkin of
live coals and arrows with shafts wrapped in cloth soaked in palbah—
flammable spirits. Myrmior, seeing Theido’s unconscious move, placed a
hand on his arm and whispered, “Not yet. Give the others time to move up
into position, and allow those who have passed on to distance themselves
from the ambush.”
   Theido took his hand away from his sword hilt and drew it across his
perspiring face. He let his breath escape between clenched teeth.
   The Ningaal, by sheer force of numbers, had succeeded in hauling the
wagons to the brink of the ford, but now other wagons were entering the
hollow and succumbing to the morass. Shortly, the hollow was filled with
wagons hopelessly enmired and hundreds of soldiers clustering around
them in an effort to budge them along.
   “Now!” whispered Myrmior shrilly. “Do it now!”
   Theido drew his sword silently and stepped calmly from the ferns. He
raised the sword, knowing that all eyes were now on him. He dropped his
arm, and suddenly the air was filled with a sound like an enormous flock
of birds taking flight from the treetops. The dim air of the dank dell was
instantly alight with darting flames arcing to earth like stars falling from
on high.
  A confused cry of alarm went up from the unsuspecting Ningaal as the
flaming arrows found their marks: the wagons. In moments the wains were
afire and the befuddled soldiers overwhelmed with terror. The Dragon
King’s archers then hailed down arrows upon the enemy without mercy.
Ningaal dropped where they stood, never seeing their assailants nor
hearing the sting that felled them.
  The rout had only begun, however, when it was turned by the
appearance of the two remaining warlords. One came pounding out of the
wood, his bodyguard with him. Shouts rang out and orders flew, and in
moments the chaos had resolved itself, though still the larger part of the
Ningaal did not have weapons, confined as they were in several of the
burning wagons.
  That was soon remedied. A group of soldiers, in response to the
warlords’ command, rushed upon one of the burning wagons, jumped into
the flames and began hurling weapons to their comrades. When one was
overcome by the fire, another leapt in to take his place.
  The other warlord with his mounted bodyguard pointed his sword across
the stream, and his warriors came galloping across the ford toward where
Theido and Myrmior waited with a dozen knights. Arrows took two from
their saddles at midstream. Another came on, and Theido found himself
suddenly ducking savage thrusts which chopped the fern and sent greenery
flying.
  He threw up his sword to parry the slicing blows and grabbed the enemy
horse’s bridle, pulling its head down. The animal went to its knees and
Theido lunged at the rider, knocking him from the saddle. The knight’s
poniard did its work before the warrior could disengage himself from his
thrashing mount.
  The murky wood now rang with the sound of battle. Men shouted their
battle cries and fell to with a fury. Swords struck upon shield and helmet,
axes whirled and bit, splintering anything which sought to stay the deadly
blades. Theido stepped away from the riderless horse beside him and saw
a dozen Ningaal axe-men splashing toward him—some screaming, the
handles of their axes still smoldering in their grasp.
  He caught the first one in the throat as the warrior raised his axe. But he
had not withdrawn the blade when a second was upon him. He saw the
glint of the blade swing up and he raised his shield, expecting his arm to
be crushed by the impending blow.
   But the blow never came. Theido dodged aside and saw Ronsard’s
familiar face beside him, grimly determined, his sword streaming with
blood as the wounded man at his feet writhed in agony. Behind Ronsard a
host of knights stormed out of the wood where they had been concealed.
   “I will take me a warlord!” shouted Ronsard, leaping into the saddle so
recently vacated by the rider at Theido’s feet.
   The Lord High Marshall cut down two charging Ningaal as he flew
across Deorkenrill; the dark water now bore the corpses of the enemy by
the score.
   The warlord, wearing a helm of white horsehide with a plume of a
horse’s tail, whirled his mount around to meet Ronsard’s charge with
lively skill. Ronsard’s sword flashed and flashed again, but each time the
warlord met his thrust and turned it aside. Neither could gain the
advantage and soon Ronsard, surrounded by enemy footmen, was forced
to break off the attack and scamper once more across the stream lest he be
hauled from the saddle and stabbed through a crease in his armor.
   The archers poured arrows upon the battlefield in a deadly rain. Flight
after flight streaked down and Ningaal fell by the score. The unhappy
waters of Deorkenrill flowed red with the blood of the dead. And on the
far bank—that slimy incline of a death trap—the fallen lay like corded
wood. In the quagmire of the hollow the living surged ahead over the
bodies of their comrades.
   Myrmior had planned the fight well, and the Ningaal struggled in vain to
gain the advantage. Myrmior dashed along the far bank, calling out orders
and strengthening the position of the defenders where necessary and
directing the archers to new and threatening targets as they emerged from
the dim wood. Had there been more time, or had the Dragon King’s forces
been larger, it would have turned out a day of victory for the stouthearted
defenders. But it was not to be.
   A mighty shout went up from behind the defenders’ position. It rang in
the dell like thunder and even the most dauntless among the knights felt
his blood chilled. It was the howl of the raging Ningaal who had passed
over Deorkenrill, now returning, summoned by the sounds of battle. In
moments the Dragon King’s forces were surrounded and would have been
swept away instantly; but Myrmior, ever alert to the unexpected, had
saved one last trick.
   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.
   In a twinkling Quentin realized he was seeing it: the Zhaligkeer.
   The sword, its hilt of guttering golden stars with lordly jewels
embedded—ruby, amethyst, topaz and emerald—began to rise slowly,
tilting upwards as a sword lifted in triumph. Then the tip dipped and slid
and began falling through the back void of heaven, spinning as it fell, and
flashing fire into the darkness.
   The Shining One arrowed to earth in an arc of white fire. The brilliance
of that plunge dazzled Quentin, but he looked on without flinching. The
sword came to rest just above the peaks at the further end of the valley
where the Falls of Shennydd Vellyn poured out of the mountainside. It
hovered there for an instant and then slid slowly down, as a sword sliding
home to its scabbard. There it remained for a moment, its glow
diminishing rapidly and fading away in the sweeping mist.
   When Quentin came to, he was staring at the falls and the night lay deep
around him. The mountains were sleeping, and he heard only the laughter
of the tumbling water. But burned into his brain was the image of the
sword. And without a whisper of a doubt he knew where he would find it.
   “Durwin! Wake up!” Quentin whispered hoarsely. “Please wake up or it
will be too late!” He jiggled the sleeping hermit’s shoulder and then stood
to look once more into the wreathing mist.
   “What is it?” said Toli, rising up silently. “What has happened?”
   “I have seen it—Zhaligkeer. I know where we will find it. Look! The
falls! Do you see?”
   Durwin mumbled and raised his head. “Oh, it is you, Quentin,” he said
groggily. “It is bad luck to disturb the sleep of a hermit. I thought you
knew that.”
   “I have seen the sword. Zhaligkeer! I know where it will be found.”
   “I do not see anything,” reported Toli, still looking toward the falls.
   Quentin whirled and pointed with his left hand. “It is there. I—” A look
of deep disappointment bloomed upon his face. “No, it has gone now. But
it was there, I tell you! I saw it!”
   Quentin was striding away hurriedly. “Wake Inchkeith, Toli,” the sleepy
hermit sighed. “We will follow him, since we seem to have no other
choice.”
   “Inchkeith is awake,” said the armorer. “What is all this, then?”
   “My master has had a vision,” explained Toli as they leapt after him.
“He says he has seen the Shining One and knows where it will be found.”
   Quentin was leading them toward the falls along the grassy bank of the
lake. The moon was down behind the mountains in the west, but their path
was illumined by the unnaturally bright light of the Wolf Star. Quentin did
not take his eyes from the falls ahead; it was as if he did not trust himself
to remember what he had seen if he looked away for even an instant.
   The others hopped along behind him; Toli darted back and forth from
running beside his master, to urging the others to a quicker pace. A
breathless hour’s travel brought them near the base of the falls. Quentin
was standing at the foot of the towering cascade when Durwin and
Inchkeith came puffing up.
   The roar of the waterfall did not sound like laughter now. It was a
mighty rumble which inundated them and set their bones to quivering.
   Quentin turned to them, his face glistening with the spray, mist curling
around his shoulders and beading on his cloak like pearls which gleamed
in the starlight. “There!” he said, pointing with his good hand. “The
entrance to the mines is up there.” Durwin pulled on his chin. Inchkeith
frowned. “Impossible! What do you propose to do? Swim up the falls like
a salmon?”
  Toli said nothing—only looked at the swirling, splashing water and at
Quentin shrewdly. Durwin eyed Quentin closely. “I do not doubt what you
saw. Let us see whether it answers the riddle. Let us see...” He put his
finger in the air and opened his mouth to speak.
  “ ‘When mountains sleep, sharp vigil keep, you shall see the way most
clear.’ ”
  “Yes, I have seen it! The sword fell from the sky and disappeared into
the falls.”
  “I thought you were not listening, but that is very good. Yes, and it fits,
too. ‘When you hear laughter among the clouds...’ ”
  “I heard it. The waterfall sounded like laughter.”
  “Some laughter!” shouted Inchkeith. “I can hardly hear a word you are
saying over the roar!”
  Quentin ignored the remark. “ ‘Among the clouds’... see how the mist
forms clouds. What else could it be?”
  “Hmmm, yes,” agreed Durwin. “ ‘And see a curtain made of glass.’ ”
  “The water is a curtain!” cried Quentin, his face shining and eager in the
white light. “ ‘Take no care for hand nor hair,’ ” he recited, thrusting out
his hand. “It is wet!” He rubbed his hand through his hair. “And my hair is
dripping and so is my cloak. I am soaking wet.”
  “So it is!”
  “We are all soaking wet, and fools for it!” grumbled Inchkeith.
  “ ‘Divide the thunder and seek the narrow way,’ ” continued Durwin.
“Go through the waterfall? Do you suppose?”
  “Of course! Yes! That is it! That is what I have been trying to tell you.”
  “ ‘Give day for night and withhold the light and you have won the day,’
” quoted Durwin. He looked around. “Well, it is night. But it could also
mean that the entrance could only be seen in darkness or that entering the
mine in darkness would—”
  “I see it!” called a faint voice somewhere above them.
  ‘Toli!” said Quentin. “Where is he?”
  The three looked around, but could see the plucky Jher nowhere. He had
disappeared while they were puzzling over the clues of the riddle.
  “Here!” he called again. They looked to the falls and suddenly Toli was
there, stepping out of the tumbling water as from behind a shimmering
curtain. He seemed to be standing on the sheer rock face of the cliff, or
walking on the mist. “Come up here. Do not mind the water!” he said, and
disappeared again.
  Quentin was already running after him. Durwin and Inchkeith traded
doubtful stares. “It seems all chances for a peaceful night have vanished,”
sighed Durwin.
  “And a dry one,” grumbled Inchkeith. “We may as well have our bath
and be done with it.”
  The two followed Quentin around the rocky edge of the pool at the base
of the fall, where the water gathered churning and bubbling to spill into
the stream that fed the pool in the center of the valley. The rocks were wet
and slippery, making the way slow and laborious for the two older men.
Quentin fairly skipped over the rocks and soon came to stand at the edge
of the plunging torrent. Durwin saw him smile, look back over his
shoulder at them, and then step into the churning water.
  In a few moments they heard his voice calling down to them. “Do just as
I did. I will wait for you.”
  “After you, good hermit,” said Inchkeith. “I will follow in your wake.
‘Tis only fitting. This is your expedition, after all.”
  “So it is!” said Durwin. He took a deep breath and stepped into the
glassy curtain of rushing water.



                  FORTY-THREE
  “COURAGE, MEN!” Theido cried. “Fight on! Our deliverance is near!”
The trumpet sounded a valiant note, piercing above the din of battle and
the shrieks of the combatants.
  And then a voice called out from above on the hill behind them. “It is
the Dragon King! He has come! The Dragon King has come! We are
saved!” The trumpter, his begrimed features shining and eyes wide with
wonder, raised his trumpet once more and began to blow a strong and
steady note of hope.
  Those below him on the hill heard his words and turned their eyes to the
dim wood beyond. A murmur passed among the beleaguered defenders
like a spark through dry kindling. “The Dragon King is coming! We are
saved! The Dragon King!”
   Theido, too, raised his eyes to the wood. Faintly, as in a dream, he saw
the glitter of gold and scarlet flicker among the shadowy boles and
branches of trees like dancing light. And then suddenly he saw it full and
fair: the writhing, angry dragon, the King’s blazon, floating swiftly toward
them, darting through the trees.
   Others saw it, too. “The Dragon! The King!” they shouted. And the dark
wood rang with the sound of trumpets and the crash of knights on
horseback surging through the forest. The Ningaal, surprised by this
unexpected turn, fell back, breaking off the attack. One warlord wheeled
his troop around to face the battle on the newer front. For a moment the
Ningaal were divided. “Strike, bold knights!” cried Ronsard. “Strike!
Now!” The knights, bruised and beaten and greatly reduced in number,
surged ahead on the points of their swords and sheer determination. The
Ningaal before them, unable to meet an attack from both sides at once,
scattered like leaves before the storm. In moments the stalwart band of
defenders was surrounded, not by enemy, but by comrades-in-arms. The
bloodied knights lifted their swords with weary arms and cheered their
King, while the fresh forces of the Lords of Mensandor charged into the
confused Ningaal.
   Theido and Ronsard, battered and bleeding, stood leaning on their
swords. “You are alive, thank the gods!” They looked up and saw Eskevar
grinning down upon them from his great white charger.
   “Yes, we had all but given up hope,” said Ronsard. “But Theido here
thought differently.” The knight turned to his friend. “Another
premonition?”
   “No—well, in a way, yes. At first I thought it might hearten the men to
hear our trumpet sound the call. And if there was a chance that anyone
was passing near, they would hear and come to our aid. I cannot say where
that idea came from.”
   “However it was,” said Eskevar, watching with knowing eyes, “your
clarion guided us to you forthwith.” He jerked his head around, and
Theido caught a glimpse of the man that used to be—eager, strong and
quick to the heart of the battle. “You and your men fall back through the
wood. We will take these and put an end to it here and now.”
  “Sire!” The voice was Myrmior’s, who came running up from the thick
of the fighting. Theido and Ronsard had not seen him since he had stood
with them on the hillside. Once again he had unhappy news. “The Ningaal
across the river are swarming over the barriers, now that there are no
archers to hold them back. Do not think you will crush them so easily.
Even now they are working to gain advantage on two sides.”
  “What?” Eskevar wheeled his mount around and rode a few paces away.
In a moment he was back. “By the gods! These warlords are cunning
wolves.”
  “Unless you have brought more men with you than I see hereabout, I
suggest we should retreat while we have means and strength to do so.”
  Eskevar glared at the panting seneschal. The afternoon light slanted
sharply through the trees, but served only to heighten the dimness of the
battlefield, most of which lay in gathering shadow. Clearly he did not like
the idea of retreating from the first contact with the enemy; it rankled his
fighting spirit. But his head wisely overruled his heart. “As you say
Myrmior. Theido, Ronsard, get your men behind us and take yourselves
away toward Askelon!” The King shouted this last order over his shoulder
as his charger sprang away.
  Theido and Ronsard gathered the tattered remnant of their once-
powerful force and left the field. The shouts and clamor died away behind
them as they pushed back through the forest along the path Eskevar and
his knights had forced through the wood. Though bone-weary and no
longer able to lift their swords, the knights doggedly placed one foot in
front of the other and dragged themselves away.
  After they had walked nearly half a league, the forest thinned and they
came to a fresh-running brook. There they stopped to kneel and drink.
Several of the knights among them knelt down, but could not rise again.
Others stood teetering on their feet, afraid to stoop lest they, too, be unable
to overcome the weight of their armor and succumb to exhaustion.
  “We must press on,” said Ronsard, casting a worried eye around him. A
few soldiers had splashed across the creek and now lay gasping on the
other side. “If we tarry much longer, they will bury us here.”
  “If we had horses we would have a chance,” Theido said. “When
Eskevar sounds the retreat, they will soon pass us by. A knight on foot is
no knight at all. This armor was not made for marching.”
  “I do not welcome the thought of being left behind when the army
comes by. But look, good Theido.” Ronsard pointed across the brook to a
clearing where a line of wagons rumbled toward them. “You have only to
speak your mind and it is done. Today is your day, my friend.”
   “It certainly seems so.”
   In moments Eskevar’s surgeons were scurrying among them, removing
gorgets and breastplates, greaves and brassards and mail shirts, attending
to the wounds of the knights. The armor was collected by squires and
taken to the waiting wains. Other knights began calling for squires to
come help them strip off their armor, and once unburdened they splashed
their way across the brook and made for the meadow.
   The sun was westering when Theido and Ronsard stepped into the lea.
They had waited until all of their men had been tended and had either
walked out of the forest or had been carried out and placed in a wagon.
Just as they stepped out of the wood a cheer went up from the soldiers.
Looking around they saw several men leading horses. Unbelievably, they
were their own chargers—the animals, separated from their riders during
the fight, had headed toward home and had been collected by the squires.
Many of the knights found their own mounts; others took the mount of a
fallen friend.
   “Be mounted, men!” shouted Ronsard happily. “To Askelon!” They
turned and rode west through the forest once more and were joined by the
first of Eskevar’s retreating army, grim-faced and sullen. Soon knights
were streaming from the wood. Theido identified the devices and colors of
the various lords: Benniot’s silver and blue double eagle; Fincher’s
gauntlet of grey on a crimson field clasping thunderbolts of white; Rudd’s
red ox on sable; Dilg’s green oak above crossed maces on a yellow field.
   “I do not see Ameronis, Lupollen or their party,” said Theido.
   “Nor do I. Perhaps Wertwin will convince them yet. Let us so hope in
any case.”
   Theido swiveled in his saddle. “Where has Myrmior got to? I would
thank him for his valor and sharp wits on the field today.”
   “His will be the last blow dealt, if I know him at all.” He turned in the
saddle and spied a rank emerging from the wood. “Here, Theido! Yonder
comes Eskevar and yes, Myrmior is with him, and the lords.”
   In a moment the other lords had caught the two knights. “Is the enemy
pursuing?” asked Theido.
   “Yes,” answered Rudd unhappily. Clearly he did not like retreating any
more than the others, probably less. “But they are afoot for the most part.
If we continue, we should outdistance them shortly.” He issued a
challenge with his eyes to the others around him. “I say we should rally in
the wood ahead and wait for them. We could—”
   “We could foolishly allow ourselves to be cut to ribbons in the night,”
said Myrmior savagely. Fire glinted in his dark eyes. He was angered and
turned his horse away from the others and rode away after glaring at those
around him defiantly.
   “He speaks the truth,” sighed Eskevar. “We have underestimated this
enemy from the beginning. We will do well not to try doing it twice in one
day. Retreat to Askelon is the only cure for our malady, my lords. We will
have little enough time to prepare for a siege; let us make best use of it.”
   The march back to Askelon was somber and silent. It was dark when the
army reached the plain below the castle, and though the moon had not yet
risen the ominous Wolf Star was burning brightly, shedding a chill light
upon the land. That night the armies of the Dragon King felt the sting of
that cold light. All regarded it bleakly and strong men quaked inside with
fear, for they knew an evil day had come.



                    FORTY-FOUR
  STEPPING THROUGH the waterfall was like stepping through a glass
curtain. At the extreme edge where they entered, the tumbling water did
not have the force it did in the center of the falls. Once through, the
explorers found stone steps cut into a rock face that inclined away from
the vertical plunge of the mountain wall. And though the steps were wet,
and slimy with black moss, each was carefully carved, wide and broad so
that with care no one need fall.
  The steps led up under an overhanging roof of rock to a landing of
sorts—a natural bartizan. There Durwin and Inchkeith found Quentin and
Toli waiting for them as they came lumbering up the stairs.
  “This is the lost mine, the secret of the Ariga!” exclaimed Quentin, his
voice sounding hollow in the great mouth of the runnel. “Look!” His left
hand pointed ecstatically toward the near wall. In near-total darkness
Inchkeith looked and saw strange figures carved in the stone, glowing with
a pale golden light. He could not make them out; they appeared to be
shapes of letters in some unknown hand. But looking at them made him
think of men and mountains and the waterfall churning and rivers and
trees and the fullness of the earth.
   Durwin stepped to the wall and began tracing the inscriptions which
were deeply carved and looked fresh as if the scribe had just laid away his
chisel. The lines were straight and well-formed, untouched by weather or
age.
   Durwin began to read. “These Art The Mines Of The Ariga, Friends Of
The Earth And All Living Things.” Durwin turned to the others, smiling.
“There seems no doubt but that we have found what we seek. Shall we go
further or wait until daylight to bring our provisions and tools up here?”
   It was a needless question. The piercing look of bright expectation on
Quentin’s face, and Toli’s quiet excitement, were enough to answer.
“Very well, we can start at once. But we will need a light first. Someone
must go back for the torches, so we may as well bring up all the supplies
at once.”
   Quentin’s face fell a fraction. “Toli and I will go. You and Inchkeith
may stay here, and we will return at once.”
   Before Durwin could suggest another plan they were off, dashing down
the slippery steps of the falls two at a time. “We may rescue some sleep
from this night yet,” laughed Durwin. “It will take them two hours at least
to return to camp and bring our things. We may as well rest while we can.
I think it will be our last for a long while to come.”
   They settled down against the far wall, and Durwin fell asleep almost at
once. Inchkeith pulled his coat around him and breathed the cool, musty
air of the deep earth which rose up from the mine shaft somewhere away
in the blackness beyond. But sleep had abandoned him completely; he was
wide awake and could not take his eyes from the wonderful inscription
shining softly from the opposite wall. Even though it merely marked the
entrance to a mine—such an ordinary thing—Inchkeith thought he had
never seen anything so inexplicably beautiful.
   A shout brought both men to their feet. Durwin rubbed his eyes. “So
soon? So it is! I feel as if I just dozed off. How did they manage so
quickly?”
   He and Inchkeith hurried, with careful dignity, down the steps to the
filmy curtain of water and stepped out into a night fading into a pearly
dawn. The quick splash of cold water brought Durwin fully awake. “Brrr!
Such a rude awakening!” he sputtered, clambering slowly down the rocks
like an animal roused from hibernation.
   Quentin was untying bundles from a horse and Toli was leading the
other, loaded down with packs and tools. “I should have guessed,” said
Durwin. “This night their feet would have wings. Well, let us begin. Our
labor is before us.”
   Inchkeith only nodded. He had been strangely silent since entering the
mine.
   In another hour’s time they had carried up all of the provisions and tools
they would need. Quentin, with only one useful arm, had carried the most,
making more trips than the others, so eager was he to begin the search. He
had no idea what lay in the depths of the mines below, but it greatly
heartened him to be once more where the Ariga had been and to see again
the works of their long-vanished hands. Being here, his thoughts turned
toward Dekra.
   They piled all the baggage in the mouth of the mine and began dividing
up the packs they would each carry. Inchkeith insisted on carrying his fair
share, despite his deformity. Durwin allowed that he would need his
strength to forge the sword and should therefore conserve his energy while
he could—the way would be difficult enough. But Inchkeith would have
none of it. In the end he gathered up his various implements saying, “I
carry my own tools, at least. No one touches this master’s tools but the
master himself.” The anvil, bellows and heavier items belonging to the
forge were left behind at the mine’s entrance. The party was finally ready.
   “Now, one thing more and we will begin,” Durwin announced. “While I
light the torches I want each of you to go back outside and look at the
valley in the dawn. Unless I am far wrong it will be some time before any
of us sees the light of day again. I want you all to fill your hearts with a
pleasant memory against the time when darkness crowds our way.”
   They all went outside and gazed upon the bright green bowl of the
peaceful valley. The morning light struck the curling mist with a golden
radiance, and the mountains seemed crowned with flames of red gold.
Shennydd Vellyn lay smooth and deep and undisturbed, mirroring the
limitless blue of a clean morning sky brushed with the lace work of wispy
white clouds.
  The thin mountain air smelled sweet and fresh, vastly different from the
dank, stale air of the mine. Quentin, though he appreciated Durwin’s
suggestion as a wise one, was anxious to be off. While he gazed about him
intently, his mind was so full of new excitement he saw little. When they
finally turned to go back into the mine, Toli was the last to tear himself
away from the beauty before him.
  One by one they ascended the tumbled rocks, wet with spray. One by
one they approached the thunder of the falls. One by one they parted the
shimmering curtain and stepped inside, into the darkness of the fabled
mines.
  Esme and Bria stood on the high barbican overlooking the gates of the
castle and the town below, its buildings clustered like a flock of timid
sheep in the shadow of its great protector. On this fresh morning, though
newborn and still fondling its night airs, the narrow, cramped streets were
rivers of moving color, all surging at flood stage toward the gates below.
Out on the plain, as far as Pelgrin’s dark border, threads of travelers could
be seen weaving their way to the city to join the streams moving into the
castle.
  “From where do they come?” wondered Esme, her voice softened with
awe. “There must be whole villages of people down there.”
  “True,” replied Bria. “Word travels on eagle’s wings, does it not? It was
just the day before yesterday that the lords returned from battle. Now look.
Some of them have traveled all night to get here. I do not blame them,
though. I would do the same.” She said these last words with such
hopelessness, Esme turned to her and took her by the shoulders.
  “Bria, we are friends, you and I. Are we not?”
  “Yes, of course. Why—”
  “Then I must tell you something—as a friend would.” Esme searched
her companion’s face and looked her in the eyes. Bria was startled by the
directness with which this dark-haired beauty addressed her.
  “Speak freely,” said Bria.
  “We are women now, Bria. Royal women. There is no more room for
girlish indulgences. You have eyes; you have seen. We are to endure siege
here not many days hence. We must put away all thoughts of ourselves
and begin thinking of others first. It must be done. We must be strong for
the men who fight, for the people who will look to us for hope and
encouragement, and only lastly for ourselves. For the sake of the kingdom
this must be. Our courage must be a flame which can kindle the hearts of
those around us. That is a woman’s duty in time of war.”
   Bria’s green eyes fell, ashamed. “Your words pierce me, fair friend.
What you say is true. I have walked in proud misery these past weeks—
ever since Quentin left. I have been selfish. I have shown myself to be
afflicted by the fate that took our loved ones from us—though others had
better claim to such recourse than I.” She raised her eyes once more to her
friend’s.
   “But no more, Esme, no more. You have spoken the truth as a friend
ought. I will put away girlish airs and simpering. I will be strong that those
around me will take strength, too, and not be at pains to cheer myself
when there is more important work to do. I will be strong, Esme.”
   Bria threw her arms around Esme’s neck, and the two young women
embraced each other for a long moment. “Come, let us do what we can to
see to the accommodations for the villagers seeking refuge within these
walls,” suggested Bria.
   They turned away from the barbican and began walking along the
southern battlements. “I feel such a fool, Esme. Forgive me.”
   “No, do not chide yourself. I did not speak so to reproach you, for you
are far more tenderhearted than I.”
   “If that were so, I should have been comforting you, Esme. You are far
from home, and no news has come of the fighting there or of your family.
You must be very worried.”
   “I am, though it was part of my father’s plan to send me here and thus
remove me from the threat of war. I honor him by holding to the course he
set for me, though I am sure he scarcely guessed that mighty Askelon
would fall under siege.”
   Esme threw a guarded glance to Bria, then blushed and averted her eyes.
   “What? Speak if you will. What is it?”
   “Well, to tell you the truth,” said Esme slowly, “I have not thought of
my own family as much as I have another.”
   “Toli?”
   “Yes, Toli.” She regarded Bria carefully. “Why? Is something wrong
with that?”
   “Oh, no! Far from it, Esme. It surprises me a little, that is all. Toli is
always so quiet, so invisible. I scarcely notice when he is around. But
then, he and Quentin are inseparable, and since I only have eyes for
Quentin it should not surprise me that someone else sees in Toli something
I do not.”
  “Believe me, it was the furthest thing from my mind to lose my heart so
easily. I was on an errand for my father, but in those days upon the trail
and—Bria, you should have seen the way he protected me when we met
the Ningaal. And afterward, when I saw him alive again, my heart went
out to him. He likes me, too, I know.”
  Their talk had brought them to the great curtain which divided the inner
ward from the outer. They stood looking down into the outer ward at the
mass of people moving about, constructing tents and temporary lodgings
for themselves. Cattle, pig and chickens had been brought along to provide
food should the siege prove a long one. The warder and his men were
scurrying around directing the flow of humanity here and there, trying to
keep the pathways open for soldiers who would be moving through.
  “Can the castle possibly hold all these people?” asked Esme. “I have
never seen anything like it, though it is said that in the Winter’s War
100,000 were besieged here all winter. But that was long, long ago.”
  The lowing of cows and the squeals of pigs, intermingled with the
general shouting and crying of peasants and villagers, created an
overwhelming din. The princesses looked down upon the frightened
populace and forgot their own cares, for in the pathetic confusion of the
refugees they heard small children crying.
  “Are you sure you want to go down there?” asked Esme. “I am sure.
There may be but little we can do for them. But that little shall be done.”
  With that, they entered the southern tower and began descending the
spiraled ranks of stairs into the noisy chaos of the outer ward.



                     FORTY-FIVE
  THE DARKNESS was unlike anything Quentin had ever experienced.
Far darker than the blackest night, it was a palpable thing, primitive and
insistent. Almost as if alive, it crouched around each turn and on every
side, waiting to smother all intruders in its velvet embrace. The torches
they carried seemed fragile and ridiculous things, mere toys against an
unrelenting foe of stupid, savage cunning.
  Still, the sputtering pitch torches served somehow to keep this awesome
darkness at bay, though they always seemed to be on the verge of
guttering out completely and plunging their bearers into a void as black as
death. Each one carried a torch except Inchkeith, who labored doggedly
along, weighed down with his delving tools, as he called them. Durwin
went ahead, relying on his sparse knowledge of Ariga mining lore to serve
as a guide. Quentin, arm in sling, but toting a large pack nonetheless,
followed Durwin. Inchkeith hobbled along behind Quentin, and Toli
brought up the rear, grinding his teeth with every step into the mountain’s
black heart.
  After walking for what seemed days on end into the darkness along a
low-roofed, wide corridor of solid stone, Durwin halted the party saying,
“No doubt you young men could go on walking this way until Heoth
himself stopped you in your tracks. But I think it is time for a rest. A bite
to eat would not be unwelcome, either.”
  “Take no thought for me, hermit Do not stop on my account,” said
Inchkeith, But Quentin noticed he loosened his pack all the same.
  ‘It is not for anyone but myself that I sit down, sir. My feet tell me it is
time to rest a bit, and my stomach agrees.”
  They ate, and Quentin realized how hungry he was after all. As he
munched, he wondered whether it was day or night outside. But in his
mind he pictured it as exactly the way he had seen it last. Durwin had been
right—it was a useful thing to carry a little sunlight with one into this dark
hole.
  Toli ate little and said less. He had grown sullen and had withdrawn into
himself, becoming, if it were possible, even more quiet than usual.
Quentin pretended to take no notice of his friend’s behavior, for that
would have only served to make it more painful to him. He knew precisely
what was bothering Toli: the Jher did not like the smothering confines of
the mine. It was a supreme act of bravery for Toli, born of a people who
roam the earth at will, following the wild creatures, to have even entered
the hateful place, which seemed to him worse than a grave.
  And there was something of the same uneasiness which bothered
Quentin, too. But in him it took the form of puzzlement. The Ariga, whose
every work was a visible, tangible song, had constructed a most
unappealing mine shaft. Not that Quentin had expected the brightly-
colored, sweeping galleries of Dekra to be reproduced below, but he did
anticipate something of their remarkable flair, which usually showed in
even the most mundane articles of their everyday life, to be present here.
All he could see was a black tunnel of stone which glistened in patches
where water seeped down its sides.
  “If I am not mistaken, we are still in the entrance shaft. Soon, I think, we
will reach the first level. How many levels there are I cannot say, nor on
which one we shall find the lanthanil,” Durwin said. “We will search each
level and every gallery until we find it. My own guess is that it lies very
deep and that we must descend to the lowest level.”
  At that Toli made a strange grimace, as if he were eating a most bitter
fruit. Quentin would have laughed if it had been anyone else, but he knew
how much this experience was torturing his friend. So he turned away and
said to Durwin, “You mention the lanthanil. I would hear more about it,
for all I know is what little you have said and what I remember from
Dekra, which is so wrapped in legend as to be beyond belief.”
  “Do not be so certain of that. Yes, often the stories men recite about
such things do grow in the telling. But the Stone of Light—that is what the
word means, roughly translated—is a most fantastic substance. It has
many exotic and powerful properties.”
  “If tales are to be believed,” said Inchkeith, staring into the darkness,
“hear this one. Many years ago my father was traveling the world with his
father—he was but a small boy at the time—and they were seeking the
secrets of weaponry and armor, of forging and forming rare metals, of
setting gems in their bezels—all the craft which an armorer must know.
  “In Pelagia they met a merchant who sold arms, and they became friends
when the merchant saw a sample of my grandfather’s work. When the
merchant realized that he was talking to a great craftsman, he took them in
the back of his shop—for in that country they had stalls outside covered
with awnings, and inside—where the merchants and craftsmen lived and
worked—they kept the very finest articles of their trade. To be invited
inside was a considerable honor.
  “This merchant, a very well-known and respectable man—I cannot
recall if I ever heard his name—took them in and led them to a very small
room in his large house. He unlocked the bolt across the door to this room
and led them inside. My father said it was very dark. He remembered that
the walls of the room were extremely thick and the door was very heavy,
for it groaned on its iron hinges like a drawbridge.
  “The merchant closed the door and brought out a casket from some
hidden place and put it before them on the table. The case was bound with
locks and chains, though it was but a small one. When he had unlocked it,
he took out an object wrapped in cloth. My father said the object was not
large, and appeared to not be of much weight, for the man handled it was
ease and with great reverence. “The merchant did not speak, but
unwrapped the cloth and revealed a chalice of surpassing beauty. But most
remarkable of all—the thing that my father remembered most clearly until
the day he died—was the way it shined in the darkness, as if lit with an
inner flame. He said he cried to look at it, it was so beautiful; but then, he
was a small boy.
  “He reached out to touch the shining cup, and the merchant pulled it
away saying that it was enchanted and that to touch it with bare hands
diminished its power. He said it was very old and its power was only a
fraction of what it had been, but that was still great. He said that cordials
sipped from the goblet cured at once, that the very touch of it healed all
infirmities.
  “My father’s father then did a very unusual thing. As proud as he was of
his work, he said he would give the merchant his finest dagger for one
touch of the chalice for himself and his son. My father noticed the strange
look which came over his father’s face as his voice pleaded. The dagger
was finely wrought; it had a golden handle with rubies inset. It was worth
a great deal, and yet the merchant hesitated.
  “But in the end he relented and let them touch the chalice. My father
remembered how the light which leapt from the exquisite cup lit his
father’s face and seemed to infuse him with a new power of creating and a
heightened understanding of his craft—though this was observed much
later. When his father finally passed the chalice to him, he was afraid to
touch it, but his father urged him to and he did. He said he never felt such
strength and wholeness, and nothing in his life ever moved him with such
emotion after that. Though he was but a small boy, he knew even then that
he would never recover that feeling or see such beauty again; so he
treasured it in his heart.
  “My father spent the rest of his life trying to achieve in his craft the
beauty that he saw in that cup. And you know he lived far beyond the
natural span of a man’s years. He always said it was because of the chalice
and that had his father given a hundred golden daggers, it would have been
but a paltry sum for the gift of that one touch.”
   Inchkeith’s voice had softened to a whisper. Quentin and Toli and
Durwin, too, sat rapt and staring with amazement at the story the armorer
told. For a long time no one spoke, but at last Quentin broke the silence.
“What became of your grandfather? How did it affect him?”
   Inchkeith was slow in answering, and when he at last opened his mouth
to speak, he turned eyes filled with sadness toward them.
   “His was not a happy fate. He, too, lived long and prospered. But he
became obsessed with finding another chalice, or some other object made
from the mysterious metal, and when he could not he tried to make one
himself. But he was always disappointed. For though his works became
the most highly prized in all the realm, he was yet unsatisfied. He died
bitter and broken, consumed with despair. Some said it was the despair
that killed him in the end.”
   “Did your father not share his fate, then?”
   “To some degree, yes. He, too, was never satisfied with the work of his
hands after having held the chalice. But you must remember he was a
small boy. I believe his heart was yet innocent and untutored in the ways
of the world. The touch of the chalice, rather than leading to bitterness in
the end, inflamed him with a burning desire to seek that beauty. He died at
last unfulfilled, it is true, but not unhappy for that.”
   “Your story is most moving,” said Durwin. “I begin to see now why the
Most High has chosen you to accompany us on this journey. It seems your
family has some part to play here.” He looked around at them all and said,
“Well, we have rested and talked enough. Let us continue our quest.
Onward!”
   Slowly, almost painfully, they shouldered their burdens once more and
lifted their torches to resume their long, slow descent into the mine.
   If the outer wards were filled with the frenzy of frightened citizens, the
inner wards were filled with soldiers feverishly preparing for the
impending siege. A steady stream of soldiers marched from the base of the
southern tower, emerging from the donjon with armloads of spears and
bundles of arrows. Others, bent to the task in smaller groups, labored over
objects of wood, rope and iron on the ground; they were assembling the
machines of war. Still others tied piles of straw into bundles and sewed
heavy pieces of cloth and skins together.
   Horses were led to the stables around the ward yard where squires sat at
whetstones sharpening sword, lance, spear and halberd. Provisions,
brought up from the town by the wagonload, were stacked away in
kitchens and pantries by cooks and their helpers. Dogs chased cackling
chickens and honking flocks of geese while children, uninhibited by the
danger and excited by the bustle of activity around them, ran and played,
dodging the footsteps of their elders and staging pretend battles.
   Eskevar roamed the battlements like a shade. He seemed to be
everywhere at once. His commanders looked up to see him watching them
as they drilled the troops; the donjon keeper found him inquiring about the
level of water in the reservoir, dipping the measuring rod himself; the
squires were instructed in better sharpening technique by one whose hand
bore the royal signet. At the end of the day there did not seem to be
anyone anywhere within the walls who had not seen him.
   “Sire, I must protest!” exclaimed Biorkis, clucking his tongue. “Durwin
would tell you if he were here, and so I tell you in his stead—listen to him
if not to me; you must rest. Your strength is but half recovered, and your
ride into battle has tired you. Rest, I say, and let your commanders make
ready all that is necessary.”
   Eskevar fixed him with a baleful stare. “You little guess the danger
gathering at our gates. Who is there to look to these preparations if not the
King?”
   Biorkis, well warned by Durwin regarding the obstinate pride of his
patient, did not flinch from his duty. “What good will you be to your
people when you lay exhausted on your bed, unable to even lift your head,
let alone wield a sword or shout a command? Rest now while you may.”
   The King frowned ferociously. “I am sound enough, I tell you! My
strength is none of your concern.” Even as he spoke, he tottered
uncertainly.
   “How so, Sire? It is now the concern of every man and child in the
realm who would see his King deliver him from the hand of the enemy.
You need rest. Gather your strength that the day of the trial does not find
you enfeebled.”
   “Enfeebled! The way you talk! And to your King, by the gods!” Eskevar
snapped. His face darkened in such rage that Biorkis thought it best not to
press the matter further for the moment. “There is much to do and
someone must look to it that it be done well,” Eskevar growled as he went
out again. Biorkis did not see him the rest of the day, though he waited
near his chamber for the King to return.



                        FORTY-SIX
   IT WAS STRANGE to wake in the vast darkness of the mine. When
Quentin opened his eyes, he did not know that he had opened them at all.
The sensation of blindness was so overpowering that for a moment
Quentin’s heart clenched in his chest until he remembered where he was
and how he had come to be there. Just to make sure he winked both eyes
several times, but could discern no difference. So he lay on the hard,
uneven stone and waited, not inclined to bump around in an attempt to
light a torch. From the deep, regular breathing which filled the chamber’s
towering silence, he knew the others were still asleep. He would wait.
   They had made two more long marches before fatigue overtook them
and Durwin decided they must sleep before moving on. They had reached
the first level shortly after they had stopped to rest and eat the first time.
The corridor with the low roof had ended in a steep incline that emptied
upon a room of interminable size, judging by the echoes which the stony
walls flung back at them when they spoke. But they had no light to see
how large the room was, for the torchlight failed to illuminate its furthest
dimensions.
   They had crossed the great room, passing huge columns of reddish stone
carved of the rock of the mountain’s core, rising out of the floor like
monstrous trees sweeping up from the ground, their tops lost in the inky
blackness above. Quentin counted twenty such pillars before they reached
the far end of the room, which tapered to a huge arch through which they
passed. The arch bore the unmistakable marks of having been made by
Ariga stonecutters. Quentin would have liked to stand and admire it, but
they passed quickly on. The next corridor was more difficult to navigate
than the first.
   It was wider and its roof higher, allowing for more freedom of
movement, but numerous shafts and galleries opened off of it, often
abruptly and at slight angles. It forked in several places, splitting off to the
right and left. Sometimes they would pass by an opening which Quentin
could not see until he felt a chill breeze on his face and smelled the dank,
musty odor of stale air and stone. Once they crossed a stone bridge that
arched across a wide crevice, splitting the floor before them in a sharp
divide. On the bridge Quentin felt a warm updraft and guessed that the rift
was the chimney of some subterranean fire eternally blazing.
  Each time Durwin came to a fork or a turn which offered a choice of
paths to follow, the hermit elected to take the one which promised a
downward course. He admitted he had no precise notion of what they were
looking for, but had the idea that the highly-prized ore they sought lay at
the deepest levels of the mine.
  They had rested in a curious domed chamber on the far side of the stone
bridge. They talked among themselves at first, but somehow—through
fatigue, or through the wearing oppression of the deep darkness—the
conversation seemed to dry up like a trickle of water in the desert sand,
vanishing slowly without a trace of it’s having ever been there.
  Though tired, and aching from the weight of the packs they carried, they
had decided to press on. The slope of the downward track increased
dramatically once they left the domed chamber. With the extra weight they
carried on their shoulders, the falling grade impelled them onward at a
faster pace than they would have normally had strength or inclination to
attempt. The result was that they reached the second level in what seemed
no time at all.
  Quentin knew they had been walking some hours when they tumbled
into the enormous cavern that formed the central chamber of the second
level. But time had ceased to function in its normal way. Hours collapsed
and minutes stretched out incredibly until it seemed that time had no
meaning at all unless it was measured in footsteps or in tunnels passed.
  They had been walking in silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts as
in a hooded cloak from head to toe, when Quentin felt a touch at his elbow
which caused him to jump in fright, nearly dropping his torch. “Toli! You
scared me. I did not hear you creeping up behind me.”
  “Excuse me, Kenta. I did not mean to alarm you.” He looked at Quentin
with large, shining eyes as deep as fathomless pools. For a moment
Quentin was reminded of a time, long ago now it seemed, when he had
met a young Jher in the forest dressed in deerskins and peering at him with
the soft, wary eyes of a wild creature. The look Toli gave him now was
exactly as it had been then. With a sudden creeping sensation Quentin
imagined Toli had returned once again to his earlier, more primitive state.
Looking at those large dark eyes glittering in the quavering light of the
torch was like looking into the eyes of a wild and frightened animal.
   “What is it, Toli? Is something the matter?” Quentin spoke in a bare
whisper.
   Toli stared around him in a queer, wide-eyed way. When he spoke
again, it was with a voice quivering on a strange note Quentin had not
heard before in his friend. Toli appeared poised and ready for flight;
Quentin feared that he might suddenly dash off into the darkness never to
be seen again. “My people do not love dark places,” said Toli. “We have
never lived in caves. In ages before this one, when holes and caves were
home to many men, my people lived in the forest and made their homes in
the light.”
   The way he spoke made it seem that Toli was offering a deeply personal
confession. Quentin did not know what to think.
   “There are still those among us who speak of the times of the cave
dwellers,” continued Toli. “Some even have been inside caves when they
have come upon them in the forest. But I have never been.”
   All at once Quentin realized what Toli was trying to tell him. And he
realized what strength it had taken for the Jher to follow him into this dark
place. To Toli it was not a mine; it was an ancestral taboo which, out of
love for his master, he was willing to put aside. But the darkness and the
endless walkways of stone boring ever deeper into the bowels of the earth
had at last stripped Toli of the veneer of civilization he had acquired in
living with his Kenta. He was the Jher prince once more, wild as the free
creatures of the Wilderlands.
   “We will soon be finished here, Toli. Do not fear. You will see the
living land once again, and very soon.” Quentin felt the emptiness of his
words. The more so when Toli turned an uncomprehending, glassy stare
upon him and seemed not to recognize him at all. Quentin had the odd
feeling that he was looking at a stranger whose face was as familiar as his
own. The Toli he knew had vanished.
   “Delnur Ivi, Toli,” Quentin murmured as they trudged along. Repeating
the words over and over by the flickering torchlight, he had wracked his
brain for some smattering of the Jher speech he could use and that was
what he had come up with. Delnur Ivi. Hold on... hold on.
   Quentin rolled over in the darkness and was startled to see a faint light
bouncing toward him out of the formless void. It seemed to float or swim
in the darkness, and it bunked like the eye of some cave beast that had
happened upon their trail and was now stalking them. He watched as the
light grew brighter by degrees.
   Quentin sat up, wondering whether to wake the others and warn them.
He heard the shuffling footsteps of someone coming down the passageway
toward the chamber where they had huddled to sleep. But even as Quentin
framed the thought, the feeling of danger passed. He waited and presently
the light burst through the arched entrance to the chamber, filling the
room, or so it seemed to Quentin’s light-deprived eyes, with a sunlike
brilliance.
   “So it is! You are awake, Quentin. Come with me, I want to show you
something.”
   “But the others—”
   “Let them sleep. It is not far. Come along.”
   Quentin stood stiffly and found at once how sore his feet were. He
padded after Durwin, who lifted the torch high so both could use it as they
entered once more the main tunnel they had been following on their last
march. Presently they came to a small arched entrance in the side of the
passageway. Durwin stopped and said, “I have been wandering long up
and down this gallery. I only saw this when I was returning to the chamber
to sleep a little while ago. I decided to try it. Follow me.”
   Quentin, curiosity piqued, stooped and ducked under the arch. At once
they were in the uncomfortably close confines of a low and narrow
wormhole tunnel that twisted and turned with barely enough room for a
man to stand erect.
   The tunnel fell away steeply, far more rapidly than Quentin thought
safe; it seemed as if the tunnel would suddenly pitch down and he would
find himself falling into a bottomless well. But Durwin seemed to have no
fear, lurching along as quickly as his legs would carry him. So Quentin
kept his fears to himself and followed dutifully along.
   They came to a narrow place—the end of the tunnel. But Quentin saw
Durwin turn sideways and disappear into a crack just wide enough to
squeeze through. He, too, turned his shoulders and, holding his breath,
scraped through the thin opening. As he came through, Quentin felt
Durwin grab him by the shoulders and lay down the torch so that he could
see that he only stood on a narrow ledge.
  Then Durwin smiled at him in the glow of the torch, his face gleaming
with ferocious glee. “What is it, Durwin?” asked Quentin. He felt a thrill
of excitement tingle along his spine. Quentin heard his own voice fall
away from him, and he knew he must be standing before an enormous
chasm.
  “What is it? What is it indeed!” laughed the hermit. “I will show you.”
Durwin’s voice sounded empty and metallic as it reverberated through the
dark space before them. Quentin crowded closer to the rock wall at his
back.
  The hermit took the torch and with a mighty heave sent it spinning off
into the darkness beyond.
  “No! Wait!” cried Quentin. His cry echoed back to him from across a
great distance. The torch tumbled and spun as it fell and fell, and Quentin
saw the reflected flash of the fire on smooth surfaces as it plunged and at
last extinguished in a splash that sounded like ice splintering on a newly
frozen pond. “Watch,” said Durwin breathlessly.
  Quentin could see nothing and worried about the torch. How were they
to find their way back again? But then a strange and wonderful thing
happened.
  As he watched, he imagined that he saw the stars of heaven come
peeping out, one by one, into the blackness surrounding them. At first
these stars were but the tiniest slivers of light, but they began to grow.
“What—?” began Quentin. He never finished the thought.
  Above him the vaulted roof of the enormous chamber had begun to
shine with a soft amber luminescence that blushed pink like a winter
sunrise. The far walls held glimmering green traces like liquid light
streaking down. The floor of the cavern far below shone with its own
ghostly light in irregular splotches here and there, in seams of blue and
gold. Within moments—though to Quentin it seemed like the slow
dawning of day—the vast chamber was radiating light from all sides and
Quentin was swept away with incredulous joy.
  “Durwin,” he whispered.
  “Yes, Quentin. We have found it. It is the lanthanil.”
                   FORTY-SEVEN
  BY THE FIERCE light of the Wolf Star the sentinels watched them
coming. Although it was the sixth hour of the night, the cold glow of the
awful star cast a light as bright as day upon the plain. The star had grown
to fill the entire eastern sky, obliterating all lesser lights. And by the light
of their savage star the Ningaal came to Askelon.
  A messenger was dispatched to bring the King; he had ordered that he
be notified, whatever the hour, when the enemy approached. The courier
had scarcely left the battlements when he was back with Eskevar, grim
and glowering in his sable-lined cloak, its golden dragon brooch and chain
glittering in the streaming light.
  The embroidered silver figure of the dragon could be seen writhing on
the back of the hooded cloak as it swirled out behind him. The King was
wearing tall red boots, and his sword hung at his side; those who saw him
knew that he not been to bed that night, but had been waiting and was
ready to meet the enemy.
  They were still a long way off as Eskevar glared defiantly out into the
unnatural night. “Come to Askelon, you barbarian horde!” spat Eskevar.
“Come and meet your doom!”
  The commanders who had gathered around him exchanged worried
glances, for Eskevar’s countenance burned with a feverish mien like the
mazard of a ravening wolf. He cocked his head to them and said, “Rudd,
there. And you, Dilg; and Fincher. The dragon sleeps while the enemy
draws closer. He is under the hill sleeping in his hall of stone, but not for
long. He will awaken and defend his home. Never has the hand of an
invader touched these walls, and none ever shall. The dragon will stop
them. Yes, the dragon!”
  The lords nodded in silence, afraid to break in on the King’s ravings.
Eskevar gripped the stone crenelle with both hands as if he were holding
up the walls with his bare hands. “See how they come,” he said slowly,
every word ringing clear. “I feel their hated feet upon the land. I feel their
evil intent deep in my inmost parts. But the dragon’s heart is in me; it is of
iron. I am not afraid.”
  The lords shrank away from the Dragon King. Even those who had
served in the wars against Goliah had never seen him so. His eyes started
from his head and his mouth was taut; his high, noble brow shone smooth
and tight in the starlight.
  “This is a wonder, is it not, my lords? Look upon it. See how willingly
they come to the slaughter. See the accursed marching to their destruction.
But have no pity for them, my lords. They deserve what they shall receive.
They shall be cut down.”
  “This night is chill, Sire,” said Rudd. He spoke hesitantly, for a number
of soldiers had gathered around and were murmuring over the King’s
behavior. If it was to be whispered about that the King had lost his senses,
their soldiers could not be expected to fight as they should when the time
came. “Perhaps we should all wait within for a little. I would talk with you
about our defenses.”
  Eskevar turned to them as if seeing them for the first time. “Eh? What is
that you say?” He passed an unsteady hand over his brow, now beaded
with sweat. Rudd felt a shudder shake the King’s frame as he placed his
hand on his elbow.
  “Yes, come with us and tell us what orders you intend for us,” urged
Dilg, taking the King’s other arm.
  The two led him away from the battlements, and the other lords
followed after dismissing the crowd which had gathered, saying, “Go to
your posts. We will be in council with the King.” Then they hurried after
Eskevar and his escort so as not to raise suspicion among those who
watched them pass.
  Upon reaching the turret of the western tower they were met by Queen
Alinea, stepping out from the deep shadow of the doorway. “My Queen—
” said Rudd. She read at once the sheepish looks of the nobles.
  “Eskevar, I was just looking for you. Dismiss your commanders for yet
a little while; let them go to their men. Or if you will, allow them to gather
in the council chamber. I would talk with you, my husband. It is so lonely
this night.”
  “Yes, Sire. We will talk soon. Send us back to our men that we may stir
them to boldness with high words.”
  Eskevar did not notice what was being said. He only looked at his wife,
who linked her arm in his and steered him back into the tower. “Yes, go to
your men. Tell them we must be ready. We must be ready.” The King
turned away, his face white in the glaring light of the star. The lords of
Mensandor, glad to be relieved of the responsibility for the King, though
sick at heart for his most unusual condition, hurried back to their posts to
reassure their men that the King was sound and would lead them when the
time came. But in their hearts they wondered.
  They stood on the floor of an enormous vault at the very roots of the
mountains. Quentin stared wide-eyed like a child, Minting in utter
disbelief. The magnificence of the chamber was beyond his ability to form
words to give utterance to his thoughts. Toli, too, stood by him in mute
wonder at the splendor of the subterranean treasury, for treasure it was.
  Inchkeith had shouted for joy and gamboled like a kid down the long,
winding ledge where they had entered the vault. He still darted here and
there examining first one kind of ore formation, and then another. Durwin,
by contrast, seemed almost sedate and restrained. But he was as excited as
the others, Quentin knew. His jubilance took the form of speech—Durwin
had not stopped talking since they had entered the vault the second time,
bringing Toli and Inchkeith.
  Quentin turned to the hermit, who was babbling about the various
devices the Ariga had used to mine the lanthanil, and asked, “What was
that you said about some sort of collapse at the main entrance?”
  “What was that? Oh, yes. I found the main entrance to this room, this
castle, with no trouble. Our path led straight to it. But it was blocked by a
fall of stone.” He turned around, searching for the entrance, spied it and
pointed out across the expanse toward an opposite wall. “There, see all
that rubble? It is there the entrance lies.”
  Quentin saw a tumbled mass of rock slabs and boulders, some as big as
houses, that looked as if the tunnel had collapsed. “What happened there?”
he asked.
  “I can only guess, of course, but I imagine the Ariga blocked it off for
some reason. They were far too skillful as miners to have allowed such a
catastrophe to happen accidentally. I think they intended it. There came a
time when they decided to close off this particular part of the mine.”
  “This part? This is where the lanthanil is.”
  “So it is! They had a reason for it, of that you can be certain. What that
reason was I cannot say, any more than I can say how the Ariga vanished,
or where they went. But leave it they did... for us to find.”
  “But it would have taken us years to dig through that confusion at the
entrance. What made you think there would be another way in?”
   “I do not think they determined to keep everyone out—just the curious,
the fortune hunters and desecrators.”
   “I would never have thought of trying that hole in the wall. It looked like
a drop to certain death to me. How did you think of it?”
   Durwin smiled and shrugged. “I do not know. But if you believe that it
was meant for us to find it, then we would have found it in any case. If the
Most High had so wished, the mountains would have opened up before
us!”
   Toli had been scraping around the mounds of stone that sloped up from
the floor, and he came gliding back to where Durwin and Quentin were
talking. “Come with me,” he said, pulling them away. “I have found
something!” He ran away again with Quentin and Durwin tagging after
him. As they rounded the heap of stone, Toli pointed to something which
shimmered in the glowing light of the cavern.
   “What is it?” asked Quentin, bending to get a better look.
   “I think it is an anvil,” Toli answered.
   “An anvil like none I have ever seen.”
   “That is because it is gold! And look at these.” The Jher stooped and
began picking up objects from the floor, where they were arrayed as if
waiting for the master to return and take up his work once more.
   “Let me see those.” Inchkeith pushed in and took two strange-looking
objects from Toli. He turned them over in his hands and tested their heft.
   “What are they? Tools?”
   “Exactly,” replied Inchkeith. His face shone with excitement. “But such
tools! These are the tools of a great master craftsman. And they are made
of gold, too. Imagine—thinking so little of gold that you would make tools
of it! They are of very old and unusual design, but I can readily perceive
their purpose. And look—here is a hammer.”
   “I recognize that at least. But it must be very heavy, and much too soft
for a hammer.” Quentin took the hammer from Inchkeith and tried it. The
golden hammer was not as heavy as he expected; in fact, it was only
slightly heavier than a hammer made of iron.
   “Lanthanil can be worked with tools of any kind,” the armorer
explained. “It is wonderfully malleable. But gold does not diminish its
power. Gold is the only substance which does not transmit the power of
the metal. And the Ariga no doubt used a secret alloy to strengthen the
gold for use as hammer and anvil.
   “It was foolish of me to have brought those.” Inchkeith gestured toward
the pile of baggage that lay stacked on the floor a few paces away.
“Between these”—he shook the tools in his hand— “and the forge yonder,
we have everything we need.”
   “The forge?” Quentin looked around. “I do not see a forge.”
   “There, set in the wall. Mind you, it does not look like one of our forges;
it is more like a shrine. But I can tell what use it had. ‘Tis a forge.”
   Quentin felt very small and insignificant in the magnificent chamber. He
turned his eyes once more toward its huge dome, glowing amber and
green, and to the walls streaked with blue and violet veins, and to the
floors suffused with red-gold and rose. He felt like a thief in a king’s
treasury who might be caught at any moment and thrown out.
   “Now, then. Here are the tools and anvil. The forge is close by. We lack
only the ore and we can begin,” said Durwin.
   The words shook Quentin out of his reverie. He had forgotten all about
their reason for coming, so taken was he with the otherworldly beauty of
the Ariga vault. “Begin?”
   “Yes,” Durwin laughed. “We have a sword to make!”



                   FORTY-EIGHT
  “NO,” INSTRUCTED Durwin. “These will not do.” He handed two
shining green rocks back to Toli, whose eyes sparkled as he looked at
them. “Neither green, nor amber, nor blue, red, nor even gold is suitable.
Perhaps for chalices and utensils and the like, but not for the Zhaligkeer.
The Shining One must be made from white lanthanil, for it is most rare
and possesses the greatest powers.”
  Quentin looked around. “I wondered why so much of the precious rock
lay about. It was the white the Ariga prized most.”
  “So it is! We will have to delve for it if we are to fashion a sword,”
Durwin stated. “For I have not seen a showing of white since we entered
here.”
  “Nor have I.”
   At Inchkeith’s suggestion they spread out, each to a different quarter, to
search for a vein of white ore among all the rainbow traces of colored
lanthanil. Inchkeith schooled them on what to look for and how to go
about it, so that at the end of several hours search they were well-
acquainted with the methods of miners. But by the end of an entire day’s
search they were no closer to having found a speck of the rare white ore.
   The next day’s search brought nothing but sore fingers and knees to the
miners. The day following it was the same. Quentin considered these
periods of activity to be days since they were bound on each side by
intervals of rest, but how long in duration they were, he could not say. At
the end of it, as they sat before the small fire Toli had made in a ring of
stones, frustrated and longing for sleep, Inchkeith grumbled to himself—a
habit he had fallen into of late.
   “What was that?” asked Durwin.
   “Nothing,” growled Inchkeith. He raised his cup once more to his
mouth.
   “You said something about the water,” replied Durwin. “I think I would
like to hear it again.”
   “I said this water tastes as stale as stone!” Inchkeith glared at the hermit
with a look of smoldering exasperation.
   “I think you may be right,” said Durwin, tasting his water. “Very like
stone.”
   “What is so odd about that?” inquired Quentin. He believed they were
all beginning to show signs of strain and exhaustion. “We have been
drinking this water for two days.”
   “Yes,” added Toli, “ever since we emptied the skins, we brought in with
us.”
   “Where did you fill them, Toli?” asked Durwin eagerly, leaning forward
in the light of the fire.
   “Why, at the pool over there. Just below where we entered. But it is safe
enough. I tested it myself and found no ill effect. It is stale because it had
been so long in the cave, away from sun and air.”
   “Then the pool is not fed by a spring?”
   “I should say not. If it were, perhaps the water would have a fresher
taste.” Toli looked narrowly back at Durwin.
   “Why this sudden interest in our water? We have been drinking it two
days, as Toli says. It has brought no harm.” Quentin shrugged and as a
show of confidence in Toli’s judgment he drained his cup.
  Durwin stood abruptly. “Take me to the pool.” No one moved. “At
once!”
  Toli rose and led him off. Inchkeith and Quentin stared at one another,
mystified. “Well, we might as well trail along after them as wait here. I am
ever amazed at the notions that hermit takes into his head. There will be
no sleep until he is satisfied anyway.”
  So the armorer and Quentin followed the figures receding in the glowing
half-light of the great vault. When they caught up with them, Durwin and
Toli were down on hands and knees peering into the ebony depths of a
pool whose surface looked as hard and polished as black glass.
  “No, I cannot see anything,” sighed Durwin. “But I think we must try.”
  “Try what?” asked Quentin.
  “I cannot be certain,” began Durwin. “But...”He hesitated.
  “Out with it, you pesky hermit. What do you suspect?”
  “Only this, and it is a forlorn guess—that it would be very like the Ariga
to further conceal their prize in a way that did not altogether hinder
discovery.”
  “You think it is in the pool?” Quentin knelt and stared into the water in
disbelief.
  “Perhaps,” intoned Durwin. “I did not say for a certainty that it was.”
  “Bah!” said Inchkeith. “This is seepage water, nothing else. You will
find nothing down there.”
  “Oh, do not be so sure. Have you seen any seepage or running water
since we have entered the mine?”
  “A little, of course.”
  “Very little, sir. The Ariga miners knew their craft—far better than any
miner living today. Water is a constant danger in a mine. But as you
yourself have seen, no such hazard threatens this mine; the Ariga had
ingenious ways of disposing of it. Therefore, I am inclined to believe that
this pool is here for a purpose.”
  “Of a purpose or no,” Inchkeith said, squinting into the fathomless
depths, “how do you propose to delve down there?”
  Durwin shook his head and stood. “That I do not know. But let me sleep
on it. Perhaps something will come to me in my dreams.”
  They all went back to the place where Toli’s fire still burned and
pretended to try to sleep. But the attempt was far from effective because
each had fallen prey to the puzzle of the pool: how to remove the water.
So each tossed and heaved under their cloaks and thought about nothing
but the pool and the white lanthanil that might lay buried in its black
depths.
  At last Quentin sat up and said, “It is no use. I can not sleep, and if my
ears tell me anything, they tell me no one else is sleeping either. We may
as well talk about it.”
  “You are right,” grunted Inchkeith. “There will be no rest until we have
solved the riddle of how to get ore from a puddle.”
  “So it is,” Durwin said, rising up. “Has anyone thought of a way?”
  Blank stares met over the fire. It was clear that no one had any idea of
how the mining operation might proceed.
  Slowly Toli got to his feet. “There is only one way,” he said. “I must go
down there.”
  Silence followed this pronouncement. Toli’s features had become a
mask of fear and revulsion such as Quentin had never seen on his friend
before, not even in battle. “Toli, there is no need; we will find another
way.”
  “What way would that be?” Inchkeith muttered.
  “We could drain it, or—” Quentin could not think of another way to
suggest.
  “You see, my way is best,” said Toli softly. He appeared as a man going
to his death.
  “But—” Quentin started to object.
  Durwin stopped him, saying, “No, I believe Toli is right. His is the only
way. I see no reason to talk about it any longer. We might as well get on
with it since no one feels like sleeping.”
  “No!” Quentin protested. “I will not hear of it, even if Durwin thinks it
the only way. If anyone must go, let it be me. It is supposed to be my
sword, after all”
  “Think of what you are saying.” Durwin turned a steady gaze on
Quentin that made him feel like a small child. “Are you fit to swim and
wield a pick underwater? With your arm, what could you do?”
  Durwin continued, “Who of us better than Toli? Inchkeith? Myself? No.
Toli is right. He is the only choice. Of all of us, he has the best chance of
succeeding.”
  “Then I will go with him,” said Quentin hotly. Durwin shrugged. “You
may be of some help. All right. Let us begin.”
  Within a short time they were ready. Toli and Quentin stripped off their
clothes and, wearing only their leather baldrics—to which had been
attached long ropes, tools and, on an inspiration from Inchkeith, small
pieces of glowing lanthanil so that they might be seen as they descended
and worked in the inky depths—they stood on the brink, looking morosely
into the pool as if Heoth himself waited below to embrace them in his icy
grasp.
  Durwin and Inchkeith held the ends of the ropes. “Remember, you have
but to tug on the rope and we will pull you up in an instant. Do not try to
swim—save your energy and lungs. It will allow you to work longer. The
weight of the tools you carry should take you down quickly enough. Save
your strength, both of you.”
  Toli said nothing. His countenance had hardened into features as cold
and unreadable as the stones of a castle wall. Whatever he felt inside had
been pushed far back into some remote corner of his being.
  “This is a brave thing you are doing, fair friend.” Quentin put a hand on
Toli’s shoulder and felt the tenseness of the Jher’s muscles. “Do not
worry. I will be beside you.”
  Toli nodded briefly, never lifting his eyes from the pool. Then he took
one step in and sank out of sight with scarcely a ripple. Quentin took a
deep breath and followed, clutching his injured arm to his chest so that it
would not float awry.
  The shock of the icy water upon his bare skin almost caused Quentin to
gasp at once. It felt like 10,000 dagger points tearing at his flesh. He
swallowed air into his stomach, and bubbles spouted from his nose. An
instant later he was benumbed to the icy assault of the chilling water. He
opened his eyes as he drifted down and down into the black, silent,
dreamlike void. He looked up to see the faintly luminescent glimmer of
the cavern above as it receded and dimmed with his descent.
  Close beside him Quentin could feel Toli’s presence, though he could
but faintly see his friend. At three spans or so below the surface of the
water they reached a sharp overhang and felt along this shelflike
projection with their feet, almost walking along it, until it dropped off
again. Underneath the shelf was a great hollow, or that was the impression
Quentin received, for he could see nothing at all. Even the dim glow above
was now obliterated beneath the overhanging rock ledge.
   It was with some surprise that Quentin’s feet touched smooth rock once
more. Whether it was another rock ledge or the bottom of the pool he
could not tell. But here it was where Toli decided to begin searching for
the elusive white ore. Quentin felt a slight swirl of movement beside him
and knew that Toli was inching forward toward the wall which he
imagined was directly before them.
   Quentin made to follow and immediately stubbed his toes against a
lump of rock. The sudden pain caused him to lose some of his air as he
stumbled awkwardly and slowly to his knees. With grace and ease he
righted himself and weightlessly followed after Toli, whose belt of
glowing lanthanil he could see just before him.
   Toli had reached the rock wall, and with a jarring bump Quentin reached
it too. They had only been underwater for a few moments, though already
it seemed like hours to Quentin. He wondered how Toli was taking it.
Another swirl of movement, followed by a dull clink, and he realized that
Toli had wasted no time or motion and was already picking away at the
surface of the rock face with one of Inchkeith’s handpicks.
   With his good hand Quentin fumbled at his baldric for a tool and
followed Toli’s example. He picked blindly away with the slow,
cushioned movements of the swimmer. He could hear, like the clink of
coins struck together, the tap of their tools upon the rock. After but a
moment of this exertion Quentin’s lungs began to burn, and he reached out
to signal to Toli that he was going up for air. Toli acknowledged his signal
with one of his own. Quentin tugged on the rope and stepped back away
from the rock wall. All at once he began ascending rapidly—so much so
that he had to kick furiously in order to avoid the overhanging shelf above.
   With a fizz of bubbles and a gasp Quentin bobbed to the surface.
Durwin and Inchkeith were peering down at him intently. “It is c-cold as
ice down th-th-there!” Quentin chattered involuntarily. “Could you see
anything?” asked Durwin, ignoring the temperature report. “What is down
there?”
   “There is a rock ledge three or five spans below me here. Just under that
is a space large enough for a man to stand and work. Whether it is the
bottom or not, I cannot say. Toli is still there, but he should be up for air
shortly.”
   “That sounds as good a place as any to begin looking,” said Inchkeith
eagerly. Quentin thought the old armorer would gladly have changed
places with him if offered the chance; his face gleamed in the soft light of
the vault with a glaze of intense anticipation.
   “Toli is staying down too long,” observed Quentin. He ducked his head
beneath the water, but could catch no sign of Toli’s glowing belt
surfacing. Inchkeith still held Toli’s rope slack in his hands.
   “I shall fetch him; he has been down long enough.”
   “Yes, go and see what is keeping him. No need to overexert his lungs,
even if he can swim like a fish.” Durwin began paying out the rope again,
and Quentin dropped at once back into the cold, silent viscid world of the
pool. Once below the rock ledge Quentin could see the dimly shining belt
of Toli just below. He pushed on as quickly as he could and approached
his friend in long, weightless strides.
   Quentin felt in the water for Toli’s shoulder and touching it, turned the
Jher around. But Toli turned away again and Quentin felt the swirl of
motion and heard the odd, faraway clink that meant Toli was continuing
with his picking.
   Quentin, becoming worried for his friend, thought to grab Toli’s rope
and tug it himself and so get him hauled to the surface whether he wanted
to go or not. As he reached out for the rope, he saw something out of the
corner of his eye.
   He turned and saw a very faint spidery crack appear in the rock wall, as
if a shining web of delicate silken strands was glowing there. He took up
his own pick and, following Toli’s lead, began chopping away at the rock
before them, leaving Toli to his own judgment.
   In a moment the black wall of rock before them crumbled away with a
flash of silver and there before them, blazing like the sun with cold
brilliance, opened a vein of white lanthanil two hands wide.
   Toli, quick as a snake, reached out and placed his hands on the radiant
stone, and Quentin saw, in the inundating glare which so suddenly shone
forth, Toli transformed. It seemed to Quentin, feeling so cold and
unnatural in this watery grave of a place, that Toli suddenly appeared
larger, stronger and more noble.
   He had little time to wonder about what he saw, for Toli was already
hammering at the stone and breaking off a big chunk of the precious rock.
Quentin had hardly blinked his eyes when Toli offered him a huge piece
of white, shining ore. Quentin looked at it, strange in this underwater
world, and at Toli, who was grinning in spite of himself. Already
Quentin’s lungs were beginning to burn again—it was time to surface. He
wondered with amazement how Toli could remain submerged for such a
time.
   Quentin reached out to grasp the stone Toli offered him, with no more
thought than to take it up to the surface for Inchkeith and Durwin to see, to
tell them they had found their treasure at last. But as Toli tumbled the
stone into his hands Quentin felt a shock of heat pass through his body like
a flame of ice. He tingled all over as if he had been struck by lightning, but
the burning passed in an instant, leaving behind a warm glow of peace and
well-being. Even the ache of his lungs vanished in that instant. He
suddenly felt more alive and whole and at peace than ever in his life.
   In the very same moment—though Quentin was never really certain, for
it all happened so fast—he felt a long shiver course through his right arm.
The arm tingled as if needles pierced it all over. And then, deep within his
arm, in his very bones, he felt a strange warmth that grew and grew until
he thought his bones were on fire.
   But the fire left just as quickly, to be followed by a rush of soothing
cold, as if water were running over his arm. This startled Quentin as much
as the fire had, for it was the first time he had experienced any feeling in
his arm in many long weeks. He looked at Toli in the weird, shining light,
and Toli grinned knowingly back at him. He stretched out his hand to
touch Toli’s face and the hand obeyed him once again. The fingers flexed
and the arm swung freely, though encumbered somewhat by the splint still
attached to it.
   Toli broke off another piece from the vein of blazing ore and jerked his
hand upward, signaling for them to rise. Quentin had quite forgotten they
were underwater; the urge to return to the surface had vanished the instant
he touched the stone. But now he was eager to show their find to the
others. So, quite forgetting to tug on the ropes, they began swimming to
the surface.
   Durwin and Inchkeith, growing apprehensive over the unusually long
time the two had been down, were discussing whether to pull them up—
especially Toli, who had not come up for breath at all.
   Suddenly Durwin shouted, “Inchkeith! By my lights, look there!”
   The armorer looked where the hermit was pointing and saw two bright
objects like the glowing white eyes of some great monstrous sea creature,
rising rapidly toward the surface. With a hop Inchkeith jumped back a step
and threw his hands out before him, so strong was the illusion of a sea
monster boiling up out of the pool.
   But next the hermit’s voice split the air like thunder that rolled and
echoed through the vast cavern. “It is the lanthanil! Praise be to the God
Most High! He has shown us his high favor! We have found it!”
   Then, quite unceremoniously, Durwin began to hop about in a wild
dance with Inchkeith while the two water-soaked, happy divers looked on.



                    FORTY-NINE
  UPON THE straining backs of groaning slaves Nin advanced along the
old river road from Lindalia on the western coast eastward toward
Askelon. Fifty thousand footmen followed in his train. The Arvin here ran
bold and deep, and wide enough for those who could find boats—and even
those who could not—to escape to the other side as Nin’s terrible caravan
passed by.
  He had sat in his palace ship waiting just beyond the island where the
river mingled its waters with bright Gerfallon’s. But his rage had flared
and burned while he waited for word from his warlords that Askelon had
fallen. When it was not forthcoming, the Supreme Deity of the Ningaal
had decided to go himself and see to it that the end came swiftly.
  He ordered his standing army of fifty thousand foot soldiers, waiting in
their ships, to disembark upon the western coast, and then he had ordered
his throne to be carried ashore. There he mounted his throne over the
prostrate bodies of his slaves and, with a wide, generous sweep of his
hand, ordered them ahead. Like an army of locusts they cut down
everything standing in their path: crops in fields, the hovels of peasants,
small villages. Nothing deterred them, and no one lifted a hand to prevent
them.
  By night and by day they marched, tirelessly, relentlessly, inexorably
drawing nearer and nearer to Askelon.
  By night and by day the evil Wolf Star shone in the heavens. By day it
could be seen shining low on the horizon, a bright spot appearing as a tiny
second sun. By night it nearly assumed the brightness of the sun itself,
transforming night into an eerie, mocking reflection of the day just passed.
Unnatural shadows stood upon the land; birds fell silent in the trees, and
animals huddled in the field uncertain whether to sleep or graze; the
masses, crouching in temple courtyards and castle wards across the land,
wailed with fear and covered their heads.
  And Nin marched on toward Askelon.
  In Askelon the lords met secretly and discussed the strange behavior of
the King. Some said it was the star which had driven him mad, that it had
touched him as it had touched the people cowering within Askelon’s
mighty walls. Others said his illness was upon him again. They all worried
together what would happen if their knights and soldiers should find out
that the Dragon King would be unable to lead them in battle, for none of
them held the slightest hope that they could long endure the siege. Sooner
or later they must meet the enemy on the field to defeat him. Desperately
they hoped Eskevar would be recovered in time to lead them, if only for a
show to the men, for they were certain the fateful battle was drawing
swiftly nearer.
  “Is there any word?” asked Eskevar anxiously. He seemed composed
and in his right mind, resting peacefully in his bed. Biorkis and the Queen
stood by him, and the lords entered his chamber.
  Lord Rudd, who had taken it upon himself to speak for the rest of the
lords, approached the King’s high bed.
  He knelt, saying, “Sire, we have had no word and now the opportunity
for such is gone. The warlords of Nin have surrounded the castle on all
sides. They occupy the plain below the rock and have taken the town as
well. They have as yet not dared to draw near the ramp, but that will come
soon, I have no doubt. Askelon is besieged.”
  “So it has begun,” sighed Eskevar wearily. “I had hoped a messenger
might come from the lords of the north to bring word of their decision to
join us.”
  “It is too late, I fear. Even if a messenger came now, he would not get
through the enemy. But even so, the lords might still come;” Lord Rudd
glanced at his peers and hastily added, “We would seek a boon, Sire.”
  “You shall have it,” replied Eskevar. “Ask it and it is yours.”
  “We would have you come speak to the knights and men, Your Majesty.
There are rumors...” Rudd fell silent, feeling he had said too much.
  “Rumors? Ah, yes, what are they? You need not fear to anger me. I
know full well the rumors voiced about.”
  Rudd looked nervously to the others for help.
  “Well?” demanded Eskevar, his temper rising. “Speak, man!”
  “Some say that you are changed, Sire. That you do not have the will to
fight—”
  “They say that I am insane! That is what you mean. Say it so!”
  “It is so, my Lord.” Rudd lowered his head.
  Eskevar made a move as if to leap out of bed. “Please, Sire!” Biorkis
jumped to life. “Stay abed but a little and regain your strength.”
  “Listen to him, my Lord,” pleaded Alinea, rushing up. She threw a dark,
disapproving look at the unhappy lords who made a move as if to
withdraw at once.
  “No!” Eskevar held up a hand toward the priest and his Queen. “Do not
hinder me. I will go with my lords to speak to the soldiers. They must
have no doubts, nor harbor despair in their hearts for their King. I will
show them I am neither ill nor afraid.”
  He turned to the lords. “Assemble the knights and men in the inner
ward. I will speak to them from the battlements of the inner curtain and
will pass among them when I have spoken to quell their fears and
apprehensions. They will see me and will know I am with them and will
lead them.”
  The lords, anxious to be away from that room, bowed as one and rushed
out to begin bringing their troops together. When they had gone, Biorkis
and Alinea came close to the King and helped him up.
  “You are so weak, my King,” Alinea sobbed. Tears filled her green eyes
and ran freely down her cheeks.
  “Let me tell them you will come tomorrow,” suggested Biorkis. “Rest
just this night, and you will feel stronger.”
  “No, it cannot be. Tomorrow may be worlds away. I must go at once.
The rumors must not be allowed to persist if I can stop them, for they
would eat away my soldiers’ hearts. A soldier needs his heart if be is to
fight for his homeland. I must go.”
   Leaning heavily on their arms he stumbled toward the door. When they
had reached it, Eskevar squared his shoulders and raised his head. “I will
walk alone,” he said and went out
   When he had gone, Alinea turned tearfully to Biorkis. “He should never
have gone into battle, Biorkis. He was just getting better. He exerted
himself overmuch and has not recovered his strength, and... and, oh, now I
fear he never will!” She buried her face in her hands. “If Durwin were
here, he would know what to do,” she sobbed.
   Biorkis wrapped one arm around her slim shoulders and comforted her.
“Yes, Durwin would know what to do, but he is not here. We will have to
think what he would do in our place, and then do it.”
   “I am sorry,” sniffed Alinea. She raised her eyes to the kindly old
priest’s. “I did not mean to belittle you. Your help has been most valuable.
I just—”
   “Say no more. I, too, wish Durwin here. He has far more knowledge of
the world and men than I. I have been too long on my mountain removed
from the ways of mortals, and I feel old and useless. Let us hope that
Durwin will return soon.”
   “Let us pray that he does.”
   “Yes, my Lady. By all means let us pray that he does.”
   Eskevar went out from the eastern tower and strode along the
battlements in the cold, mocking light of the star. His great cloak swept
like a huge dark wing after him, the silver dragon device glittering in the
strange light. Theido and Ronsard marched gravely by his side, and when
they had reached the midpoint along the inner curtain battlements Eskevar
stopped and looked down at the ranks of soldiers which had been joined to
hear him speak.
   As he looked down upon them, seeing their fearful faces turned upward
to his, seeking strength there and wisdom and assurance, he felt very old
and very tired. They were sapping him, he thought, and it was as if he felt
his strength ebbing away even as he gazed down upon them. He felt too
tired, too used up, to speak.
   But they were waiting, watching him. His men were watching and
waiting for him to banish their fears. How could he do that, he wondered,
when he could not banish his own? What words were there? What magic
could make it happen?
  Without knowing what he would say, Eskevar opened his mouth and
began to speak, his voice falling down from on high like the voice of a
god.
  He spoke and heard his voice echoing back into the small places of the
inner ward. Murmurs arose in response to his words, and Eskevar feared
he had said something wrong, that he had run afoul of his own purpose.
But he spoke on, oblivious to the words which tumbled from his mouth
unbidden. They are right, he thought bitterly, the King is insane. He is
babbling like an idiot from the battlements and does not know what he is
saying.
  The murmurs changed gradually to shouts and then to cheers. As
Eskevar’s last words died away, the inner ward yard erupted in shouts of
acclaim and hearty cheers and battle cries. Then suddenly the soldiers
were singing an ancient battle song of Mensandor and somehow he,
Eskevar, was moving through the thronging soldiers, touching them and
being touched by them.
  The Dragon King stood among his troops, bewildered by their cheers
and high acclaim. He was humbled, realizing he did not know what he had
said; he was gratified, knowing that his words had been the right ones.
  The cheers and songs had not run their course when they were
interrupted by a sound not heard in Askelon for five hundred years. Boom!
The sound rolled away like hollow thunder. Boom! Boom! It came again,
and all around the Dragon King became silent. The cheering stopped; the
singing shrank away. Boom! Boom! Boom!
  The Ningaal had brought a battering ram to the gates of Askelon. The
siege war had begun.



                              FIFTY
   “I CAN SCARCE believe it still,” Quentin said, flexing his arm. “It is as
if it had never been injured at all. Better even! And look; the skin is not
withered and the muscle is firm.”
   Toli, standing near as Durwin unwrapped the bandages and removed the
splints, replied, “I can well believe it. The stories of old were true ones.
The Khoen Navish still exist after all these years.”
  The two glowing lumps of rock shimmered like fiery white coals fresh
from the fire as they lay beside the black pool. Durwin finishing
examining Quentin’s arm and satisfied himself that, indeed, it was whole
and healthy once more. “So it is!” the hermit said, still prodding Quentin’s
arm with his fingers. “Your arm is fully healed most wondrously. If I had
not set it myself, I would say that it was never broken.”
  Durwin cocked his head to one side and observed Quentin closely. “I see
nothing now that would prevent you from lifting the Zhaligkeer. Do you?”
  With a thrill like the touch of a spark to the skin, Quentin remembered
all his old misgivings which he had succeeded in putting far out of his
mind. In an instant they all rushed back upon him like a flood, quenching
his excitement of the moment. Something like fear grabbed him in his gut
and squeezed with an iron grip.
  “Do you still think I am the one?”
  “Why do you fear? You have already chosen to follow the Most High.
This is the way he has set for you. Do not turn away from it.”
  Quentin stood looking at the blazing stones. “But the prophecy... It is...”
Words failed him.
  “You think that you will be alone? Is that it? Ha! You will not rid
yourself of us that easily. We will be ever at your side. Do not think the
Most High makes his servants tread only lonely paths. His ways are more
clearly seen with the help of others of like spirit. He has given us to you,
as you have been given to us, that we might help each other.
  “Take it, Quentin. It is for you.” Durwin threw out a hand toward the
white stones and Quentin slowly, reluctantly bent toward them and picked
them up.
  “Yes, I will take it. I will claim the Zhaligkeer.” So saying he lifted the
stones high over his head as if he already had a sword in his hands.
“Inchkeith! Let us begin. Time is drawing short. There is a sword to be
made!”
  But when they looked around, Inchkeith was not to be seen.
  Boom! Boom! The sound of the ram against the gates thundered on and
on. The peasants who had crowded into Askelon to escape the enemy
screamed in terror at every dreadful knell. The outer wards were roiling in
panic.
   Archers had mounted to the gatehouse barbican and were endeavoring to
pick off the Ningaal plying the massive battering ram against the drawn
bridge of the castle. Occasionally an arrow would strike home, and an
enemy warrior would tumble off the narrow plank they had thrown over
the chasm which divided the end of the ramp from the castle; despite this
annoyance the Ningaal were not greatly hindered. They were protected by
the ironclad roof over their implement, and any unlucky wretch who
chanced to show himself too openly was replaced in a trice by another. So
the drumming continued on and on and on.
   “Call off the archers,” said Theido, gazing down from the battlements.
“We may as well save our arrows. They are not going to prevail against
that gate. No one ever has.”
   “We could pour fire down upon them,” suggested Rudd, wearing a
worried expression. “That would get rid of them.”
   “And it would also burn down our own gates!” snapped Ronsard
irritably.
   “I do not think even fire would harm those gates,” mused Theido,
shaking his head. “But I could be wrong. Still, it would be better not to
take an unnecessary chance. We will wait to see what they try next.
   “They cannot tunnel beneath the walls, for they rise out of solid rock
and the mountain is stone as well. The postern gate is well-protected, and
the maze of walls leading to it prevents the use of a ram such as this. Our
archers can keep them at bay there, too. My guess is they must find a way
through that gate and that gate alone, for there is no other way into
Askelon Castle.”
   As he finished speaking, the Ningaal took up their pounding again.
Boom! Boom! The timbers of the gate shuddered with each massive blow,
but held firm.
   Theido turned away from the battlement and Ronsard followed him,
after instructing his officers to bring him word if the situation should
change in any way.
   “Theido, I would talk with you awhile,” he said, falling into step beside
his friend. “Let us go inside where we may speak freely.”
   They strode to a near barbican and went inside, ascending to the higher
platform of the round turret to look out over the plain and the city below.
From that lofty vantage they could see the better part of one side of the
castle and a portion of a second side. The Ningaal had indeed surrounded
the castle on all sides, being most heavily deployed around the main gates
and throughout the town. They had set fire to sections of the city, and the
smoke swept up in black columns to streak the sky above.
   “It is an evil day.” Ronsard turned a careworn visage to his friend. “How
is Eskevar faring?”
   “He is the same. No change.”
   Eskevar had nearly collapsed when the sound of the ram commenced. It
was as if each blow had been so aimed as to strike directly to the King’s
heart. It was only with difficulty that the two knights had led their
sovereign away without the soldiers witnessing his fall. Upon gaining the
security of the tower, they all but carried him to his chambers. Biorkis and
Alinea had been in attendance since then, and the knights had returned to
watch through the day-bright night as the Ningaal strove to batter down
the doors.
   “Will he ride, do you think?” asked Ronsard.
   “Why do you ask me? You have stood with him in battle enough times
to know. But we are under siege! Why does everyone insist upon talking
about battlefields and riding?” Theido snapped. After a long, silent
moment in which Ronsard merely looked back at him sadly, Theido
sighed, “Forgive me, my friend. I am tired. I have not slept in three days
that I can count—one cannot even tell day from night anymore! I am
tired.”
   “Go and rest. Let me take your watch. You yourself have said that
nothing will happen soon. Have something to eat, and lay yourself down a
little. You will feel better.”
   “Yes, perhaps I should do that.” Theido turned his eyes away toward the
north. “They should be coming. They should have been here by now.”
   “They will come. And do not forget that Quentin, Toli and Durwin are
abroad. Theirs is some errand that will make good; of that I am certain.”
   “So I believe. I only hope they are in time.” He smiled briefly and
gripped Ronsard by the shoulder. “Thank you. I will rest a bit as you
suggest. It has been a long time since I endured a siege. I have forgotten
my manners almost completely.”
   “You have forgotten nothing, my friend. Go now, and I will send for
you if anything changes.”
  When Theido had gone and his footsteps descending from the barbican
could no longer be heard, Ronsard settled himself against the stone
crenellation of the turret. He looked long and hungrily to the north for the
shining armies he hoped he would see riding to their rescue. But the far
vista shimmered instead with the heat of the summer sun. Nothing moved
out on the plain.
  Still, the knight watched and waited and his thoughts became a prayer,
turning toward the new god he had so recently elected to serve.
  “God Most High,” Ronsard mumbled, “I do not have the knowledge of
your ways that others do. But if you need a strong sword, here am I.”
There was a long lapse before he spoke again. “I know not how to pray in
seemly words. I have never been a man of prayers. But I believe you
helped me once, long ago, so I pray you will listen to me once again. Lead
us against this terrible host which gathers at our gates and seeks to destroy
us. And if it be my lot to die, so be it. But let me face the moment like a
true knight and seek to save another’s life before my own.”
  He prayed on, pouring out his heart as the words came to him and would
have continued praying but for the alarm which brought his instantly to his
feet and sent him off to meet a new disaster.



                       FIFTY-ONE
  THEY FOUND Inchkeith huddled behind a hill of stone not faraway
from the pool. All wondered at his odd behavior in hiding and at the look
of fear which twisted his features as he raised his eyes to meet them.
  “What is wrong, Inchkeith? Why did you disappear like that?” asked
Quentin. The master armorer peered at his discoverers with a distrustful
look. His hands trembled as he worked up the nerve to speak.
  “Do not make me touch it! I beg you, sirs! Do not make me touch it!”
He hid his face in his hands once more, and his shoulders shook as if he
were sobbing.
  “This is very strange,” remarked Quentin, turning to Toli and Durwin.
The hermit gazed with narrowed eyes upon the huddled body of the
deformed man.
   “I think I know what ails him. He is afraid to touch the blazing white
lanthanil; he has seen its power and what it can do. He saw your arm
healed, and he fears what it might do to him.”
   “But—” Quentin sputtered in amazement, “certainly you are wrong
here, Durwin. If anything, he should rejoice and rush to take it into his
hands that he might be healed of his crippling deformity. So I would, and
anyone else, I would think.”
   “Would you?” asked Durwin. His bushy eyebrows arched high as they
would go. “Think again. His twisted spine cripples him, yes. But he has
lived his life with it and has come to accept it and himself for what he is.
His spirit has risen above his physical limitations in the beauty of his craft.
There is a strong pride in that.”
   “To be healed, to be made strong and whole again—what can be the
harm in that?” Quentin shook his head slowly from side to side. The thing
was a mystery to him.
   “Quentin, have you never had a flaw of some sort, a hurt that you
carried with you?” Quentin’s brow wrinkled sharply. “You cursed it and
fretted over it and longed to cast it aside, and yet you secretly caressed it
and held it close lest it should somehow slip away. For that weakness was
part of you, and however hateful it was it defined you; you took strength
from it. With it, you knew who you were; without it, who could say what
you would be?”
   Quentin answered slowly. “Perhaps it is as you say, Durwin. When I
was a child I held many such childish flaws and weaknesses as virtues.
But I put them away when I became a man.”
   “Ah, yes. But your weaknesses were not of the same kind as Inchkeith’s.
His is not so easily put aside. How much more must he fear losing the
thing—ugly as it is—that has given him such comfort all the long years of
his life? It is no wonder that he shrinks away from the Healing Stones. For
though he would give anything in his power to be made straight and
strong, he would give much more to remain as he is.”
   Quentin turned to regard Inchkeith where he sat a little way off, still
huddled and trembling. There were no words to describe the pitiful picture
that met his gaze. Sadly, he turned away from it.
   “Go and ready yourselves for another dive,” suggested Durwin. “I will
talk to him a little and convince him that whether he touches a stone or
not, the decision is his. We will not think the less of him for refraining if
that, in the end, is how he chooses. Go on, now. We will come hence
directly.”
   Quentin and Toli did as Durwin told them and returned to the pool.
“Look how they shine, Toli,” marveled Quentin as he knelt before the two
lumps of glowing rock. “Have you ever seen anything like it? It is as if
they burn with an inner fire. They should be hot to the touch, but they are
cool.”
   “They possess very great power. Of that there is no doubt. I understand
now why the Ariga closed off the mine and concealed what was left of the
white lanthanil in the pool. The temptation to wield such power must drive
men mad.”
   Quentin nodded silently. “I wonder what else the stone can do?” he
asked at last. His bright face shone in the aura of the stones.
   “We shall see, Kenta. You have been chosen to carry the Shining One;
you will find out.”
   In a moment Durwin came, leading a sheepish Inchkeith toward them.
“Very well, shall we continue? We have much work to do and have only
begun.”
   “One moment, Durwin. Please, I would speak.” Inchkeith held up his
hand. “I am ashamed of my behavior, and you would do a kindness to a
foolish old man if you would wash it from your minds. I am sorry to have
embarrassed my friends so. I promise I will embarrass you no further.”
   “Think no more on it, master Inchkeith,” replied Quentin happily. “I
assure you it is already forgotten, and you shall never hear of it from our
lips again.”
   They all returned to work as before and threw themselves into their
labors. The enervating force of the ore-bearing stones which Quentin and
Toli brought up allowed the two divers to remain underwater for greater
periods of time, and before long a fair-sized pile of the shining stone was
heaped beside the pool.
   When the heap had grown to the size of a pyramid half-a-man high,
Inchkeith called a halt to the diving. “This is enough for our purpose, I
believe. If this magic stone be similar to other ores I have worked, we
should have enough to make a sword and a scabbard and chain, too.”
   Quentin and Toli dragged themselves out of the frigid water and dried
themselves. Inchkeith left them to hobble to the forge at the far end of the
cavern. “Bring the lanthanil when you are ready. I will begin firing the
crucible.”
  Filling Inchkeith’s empty tool chest with ore, Quentin and Toli carried it
to the forge where, using fuel he had found neatly stored away beside the
forge, Inchkeith had a fire roaring and ready. Durwin busied himself
preparing food for them, as it appeared there would be no sleep for any of
them for some time.
  When Toli and Quentin had filled the crucible with ore, it was rendered
into the fire where a curious transformation took place. The stones did not
crack and release their ore as the stones bearing copper and iron do.
Instead, they very slowly melted away like ice in the spring when plunged
into running water. Using a long rod, Inchkeith poked and stirred the
molten lanthanil, causing the impurities to flame into hot ash and ascend
up the chimney of the furnace. With long tongs he introduced new ore into
the crucible and kept his ceaseless vigil at the fire, maintaining a constant
temperature.
  This went on for many hours, during which the others watched and
dozed and ate by turns. At last Inchkeith pulled the crucible white-hot
from the flames and gingerly set it down.
  “Quickly, now!” he shouted. “Take up the forger’s yoke and lend a
hand. Step lively!”
  Quentin was nearest at hand and took up the tool Inchkeith had
indicated—a long iron utensil with two handles and a circular bulge in the
center. Inchkeith took the yoke and placed it over the crucible, directing
Quentin to take one of the handles and carefully follow his instructions.
Quentin did as he was told and they proceeded to pour out the molten ore,
now a shimmering pale blue like liquid silver, into four long, narrow
molds which Inchkeith had arranged along the floor. There remained a fair
amount of the precious metal when the four molds were filled, so
Inchkeith poured the rest into a sheet mold, and then they sat down to wait
for the metal to cool.
  Waiting for the glowing lanthanil to cool was like waiting for an egg to
hatch, Quentin thought. But at last the four rod molds were judged cool
enough. Inchkeith took up a dipper of water and poured it over the still-hot
metal, sending billows of steam rising into the dimly luminescent air of
the cavern. He then broke apart the molds and, with tongs and heavy
gloves on his hands, drew out four square rods nearly four feet in length.
  The master armorer hopped to his anvil, took each rod and pierced one
end; then he joined the rods together by passing a rivet cut from the sheet
of lanthanil he had made.
  “Now, then. I have done all I may do,” he said, holding up the four
newly fastened rods for the others to see. “Durwin tells me that you must
do the rest, Quentin.”
  Quentin rose to his feet. “Me? You jest! I know as much about making a
sword as I would know of making a tree.”
  “Then it is time you learned. Come here.” Inchkeith held the rods in the
tongs and indicated for Quentin to take them. Quentin stepped forward,
looking to Durwin for approval. Durwin waved him on, and Quentin took
the rods.
  “Now, do not think for a moment that I will allow you to mar my
greatest masterpiece, young sir. I will guide your hands even to the
smallest movement. I will be your brain and your eyes, and you will do as
I direct to the utmost. Do you understand?” Quentin nodded obediently,
and they began to work. Under Inchkeith’s watchful eye he took hammer
and tongs and began to braid the still malleable metal, one rod over the
other in a tight square braid. When he had finished the task, sweat was
dripping from his face and his bare arms. He had long since stripped off
his shirt and tunic and wore only his trousers.
  The braided rods were then thrust into the pit of the forge among the
burning embers, and Quentin turned the core—as Inchkeith called it—
constantly, while the armorer plied the creaking bellows.
  Soon the core began to glimmer blue-white once more and Quentin
pulled it from the fire, his own face glowing red and flushed. Taking the
core, he placed one square end into the square hole in the side of the
golden anvil and with the tongs began to twist the braid together.
  He twisted and twisted, winding and winding until he could twist no
more. Then Inchkeith let him stop, and the core was plunged back into the
pit of embers and heated to blue-white once more. Then came more
twisting and still more. Quentin was exhausted and feeling more so all the
time, but the rhythm of the work began to steal over him and he found he
entered a free-floating state where he moved in concert with the master
armorer’s wishes—so much so that he began to feel as if it were
Inchkeith’s will directing his hands and muscles and not his own.
  The braided core was twisted again and again until, by the very tension
of its coils, it began to fuse together. When it had fused completely,
Inchkeith had Quentin cut the long thin core in two, for it had nearly
doubled its length with all the twisting. One half was then set aside and the
other half was pounded flat on the golden anvil with the hammer of gold.
Every time Quentin struck the core, dazzling sparks showered all around
and a flash like lightning was loosed.
  The flattened core was heated and pounded, heated and pounded time
and again until it was very thin and flat. Then it was set aside to cool. Toli
was given the task of dowsing it with water numerous times to cool it
more quickly.
  Taking up the length of twisted braid that had been set aside, Quentin
thrust it into the forge pit to reheat it. He then began twisting it again and
again, drawing it out into a thin rod. This rod was pinched in half as well
and these two pieces, along with the cool flat piece, were thrust into the
burning coals once more as Inchkeith explained that the repeated heatings
and coolings of the metal tempered it and made it stronger, as did the
braiding of the original rods. “You have then the strength of four blades,
not just one,” he crowed. “This is how the legendary blades of old were
made. There is a tension in the twisting of the braid that is never undone.
This tension is what makes the sword leap to the hand and sing in the air.
No common blade forged of a rod and flattened can stand against it.”
  When the three long pieces were once more burning with blue brilliance
and crackling with sparks, they were withdrawn. Quentin was so absorbed
in his working it seemed as if he walked in a dream; all his surroundings
blurred, becoming faint and insubstantial as he worked on. His eyes had
sight only for the flaming blue metal turning under his hands.
  The three hot pieces were placed precisely upon the anvil according to
Inchkeith’s exacting specifications. With quick, sure hammer blows
Quentin welded the two rounded pieces to the flat one. This action
resulted in a very long flat piece with a rounded ridge in the center. When
that was done, Inchkeith sent him to plunge the core into the pool and
leave it there until it could be handled freely.
  Quentin hurried off, so absorbed that he nearly stumbled over the curled
figures of Durwin and Toli rolled in their cloaks fast asleep.
  After a time Inchkeith came and settled himself down beside Quentin to
wait. “You are doing a master’s job, sir. A master’s job. If you were not
spoken for, I would take you in and teach you the armorer’s craft. You
have the heart for it and the soul. I have seen how you look upon your
work. You know what I am talking about, eh?”
   “It is true. I have never done anything like this, but it is as if I feel in my
hands what the metal would have me do and I do it— though you must
take the credit there, for I would not begin to know what to do. But when I
lift that hammer and I see it fall, a voice says ‘strike here!’ and it is done.”
Quentin lifted the core from the pool. Water slithered down its pale blue
surface and slid back into the pool in shining beads. “It does not look very
like a sword yet,” remarked Quentin.
   “Oh, it will. It will. The work is just begun. Now we will see how this
metal works. Now will come the test!”
   Inchkeith and Quentin worked on and on, pausing to take a little food
now and then, and to rest only in idle moments, though there were few of
those. Toli and Durwin looked on and uttered words of encouragement
when such words were needed, but mainly kept themselves out of the way
and silent, allowing the master and his eager apprentice to work on
undisturbed.
   There was much heating and cooling, hammering and shaping of the
gleaming metal. It was chiseled and chased, beaten and burnished, until at
last the blade of a sword could be seen emerging from the long flat length
of metal. A hilt and handle were fashioned from the solid sheet which had
been put aside. For this a flat piece was rolled and flattened, and it too was
twisted and twisted and then joined to the emerging blade.
   The blade was fired and refired. Each time it was scraped smooth and
filed again and again with long, careful strokes. Inchkeith bent his face
over the hot metal and directed Quentin’s fingers here and there along the
length, pointing out minute flaws that only he could see. If his young
apprentice’s strength and enthusiasm flagged, the-old master’s never did.
With praise and threats and stubborn demands Inchkeith challenged
Quentin to better and higher work, at one point taking Quentin’s hands in
his own and guiding them over the blade to do the job that he knew must
be done.
   And then it was finished.
   Quentin sat exhausted on a large rock and looked at his handiwork as it
lay across the golden anvil. Inchkeith studied it carefully, nodding and
puffing out his cheeks alternately. Durwin and Toli were nowhere to be
seen. Quentin’s eyes burned in his head, and though tired, he watched
Inchkeith’s every wink and frown with breathless anticipation.
   At last the master craftsman turned to Quentin, his face beaming, his
chest swelling with pride. “Yes, it is finished.” He hesitated, seeing
Quentin hungrily grasp at his words. “And it is a masterpiece.”
   Quentin leaped up and shouted with joy. “We have done it!” he cried.
“We have done it!” He grabbed the old man and began dancing around the
forge where they had lived and worked and sweated for what seemed
weeks on end. They were so caught up in the relief and exultation of the
moment that they did not hear Durwin and Toli return.
   “Does this unseemly exhibition mean that you two have finished your
labors at last?” Durwin called, bounding forward to clap them both on the
back. He stopped, and a look of reverent awe lit his eyes. Toli, coming
hard on his heels, stopped and began speaking in his native tongue.
   “It is—” Durwin searched for words. “It is indeed a thing of fearsome
beauty.” His hands flew up toward his face as if he feared the sight would
burn him.
   “It is the Zhaligkeer,” said Toli. “It is the Shining One.”
   Quentin took it from the anvil and held it in his hand, lifting it toward
heaven. “This is the Shining One of the Most High. Let it move as he alone
directs. As I am his servant, let it be filled with his power and let our
enemies fly before its terrible fury.”
   “So be it!” shouted the others. Durwin stepped up and brought out a vial
from the leather pouch at his side.
   “I have kept this for this time. It is oil which has been blessed in Dekra.
With it I will anoint the blade of the Shining One.”
   Quentin held the sword across the palms of both hands as Durwin
opened the vial and poured the holy oil along the length of the blade,
which shone with a pale, silvery-blue light. The sword was indeed a thing
of dread beauty. It was long and thin, tapering almost imperceptibly along
its smooth, flawless length to a gleaming point. The grip and hilt sparkled
as if cut from gemstone.
   As Durwin poured out the oil he blessed the sword, saying, “Never in
malice, never in hate, never in evil shall this blade be raised. But in
righteousness and justice forever shall it shine.” Then he took his fingers
and rubbed the oil over the finely worked blade.
  As he touched the shining metal Durwin felt the power of the lanthanil
flow through him, and it was as if the years fell away from him; he was a
young man again and marveled at the sensation, for he had quite gotten
used to his numerous aches and pains. When he turned to the others he
was the same Durwin as before, but vastly changed in aspect He appeared
wise, stronger and more noble than before. He laughed out loud and
pointed a long finger directly at Inchkeith who gazed at him with some
alarm, seeing the sudden change which had come over the hermit.
  “Look there, Inchkeith, my friend. The blade has worked its
enchantment upon you as well, I see.”
  Inchkeith aghast, sputtered, “What are you talking about? I never
touched the stone, nor the blade. What do you mean?”
  Quentin looked at the hunchbacked armorer and saw that he was
standing erect and tall, he seemed to have grown several inches. How or
when it had happened he had not noticed. Perhaps when the master had
placed his hands upon Quentin’s, the power had gone into him; but they
had been so completely absorbed in their work, they had not noticed until
Durwin pointed it out to them just at that moment.
  “Yes!” shouted Quentin. “You are healed, Inchkeith. You are whole.”
  A look of stunned disbelief shone on the craftsman’s face; he squared
his shoulders and raised his head. It was some minutes before he would
believe that his hump had disappeared, but when that belief finally broke
in upon him he sank to his knees and began to cry.
  “Your god has done this, Durwin!” he cried as tears of happiness
streamed down his face. “I believe now. I believe all you have ever told
me about him. Blessed is the Most High. From now on I am his servant.”
  They all rejoiced together, and the high-domed roof of the great cave
echoed with their voices. The halls of the Ariga, deep beneath the
mountains, rang with joyful sounds such as had not been heard in two
thousand years.



                      FIFTY-TWO
  WHEN RONSARD arrived at the gatehouse barbican, he was met by
the worried glances of his officers and Lord Rudd. “What is it?” he asked.
“What is this alarm?”
   “I ordered it,” explained Rudd. “Look down there. They are bringing
some machine up the ramp.”
   Ronsard looked down and saw that what Rudd said was quite true; two
hundred or more Ningaal were laboring with ropes and poles to drag an
enormous device up the ramp. The battering ram had been taken away,
and this lumbering object was being wheeled with great exertion to
assume its place before the gates.
   “What is it?” a perplexed Ronsard asked. “I have never seen anything
like it.”
   “I cannot say I have seen such a machine in war either. But I can tell you
I do not like the look of it, whatever it is.”
   “Direct the archers to hinder them as much as possible. I have no doubt
it would be better that it never reached the gates. I will fetch Biorkis; I
would have him look at it. Something tells me that thing down there
belongs more to his ken than ours.”
   Shortly the Lord High Marshall was back at the battlements, dragging a
blustering priest behind him. “What do you make of that?” Ronsard asked
as they peered over the stone ramparts onto the activity below.
   “It is a strange thing indeed!” said Biorkis, pulling on his braided beard.
“Very strange.”
   His old eyes gazed upon the massive black object inching its way up the
long incline under a hail of arrows. Its black skin shone with a dull luster
in the sunlight and two great arms thrust forward, palms upward as if to
receive the supplications of the castle dwellers. It stood with the legs and
torso of a man, one leg thrust forward, bent at the knee, the other stretched
straight behind. But its face and head were its most distinguishing
features, next to its size, for it bore the head and mane of a lion and the
gaping maw of a jackal with a jackal’s sharp fangs bored in a furious,
frozen snarl of rage. Two huge black horns swept out from either side of
its hideous black head, and its unblinking eyes stared angrily ahead as it
groaned forward under its immense weight.
   Ronsard’s archers were causing much consternation among the enemy,
but not as much as Ronsard would have liked; for no sooner had one rope-
bearer fallen than another sprang forward to take his place. Soon those in
the forefront had been provided with shields which they held over their
heads to fend off the deadly rain and the arrows rattled harmlessly down,
striking only at random and seldom causing any mortal hurt Ronsard
called for the arrows to cease, but for the archers to remain alert to any
target careless enough to present itself. Still the thing inched forward.
   “Well?” asked Ronsard. “What say you, Biorkis?”
   “Undoubtedly it is an idol of some sort. But to which god I am not
certain. I have never seen it before, and the thing that puzzles me is this:
what kind of idol is it that is taken into war to do battle with men? What
kind of god do these Ningaal worship?”
   “Why should that puzzle you? Men are always calling on their gods to
lead them in battle, to deliver the victory into their hands, as you well
know. This is only slightly more obvious, I will warrant, but it is the
same.”
   “Yes, it is the same, and not the same at all. This is more primitive and
more savage. It is a thing unholy and evil. Even the gods of earth and sky
are offended by such as this. It belongs to a long-distant time and place,
back in man’s darker past. It is evil, and it breeds evil.”
   “But does it have any power?” asked Ronsard. Biorkis looked at him
oddly. “You know what I mean. Of itself—is it a thing of power?”
   Biorkis thought for a moment before answering. “That I cannot say with
certainty. Your question is perhaps more difficult than you know.” He
fingered his white beard as he gazed at the monstrous thing.
   “An idol is but wood or stone,” the priest continued. “It is the image of
the god it represents. Images do not often have power, except for the ones
who worship them, and then the power can be very great indeed.”
   “This one has power,” said a gruff voice behind them. Ronsard and
Biorkis turned to see Myrmior standing behind them. “And yes, it is evil.
Well I know it, for I have seen it work often enough. It is an idol, yes. But
its purpose is far more coldly cunning than you suspect. It is foremost a
machine of war, known in other lands as a Pyrinbradam—a fire-breather.”
   A glimmer of understanding appeared in Ronsard’s eyes. “If that is true,
I will order water to be brought up at once.”
   “It would be wise,” Myrmior assented. “Wet skins, if you have them,
might offer some protection.”
   Ronsard called to his officers to relay his orders and see that they were
carried out. Water was to be poured over the gates and wet skins draped
across them in an effort to reduce their flammability.
  “Is there nothing else that may be done?” he asked.
  “Nothing but to wait. Wait and pray,” muttered Myrmior.
  The waiting began and lasted for twelve long days. And each of those
days was filled with ceaseless labor as water was hauled in buckets to the
top of the drawbridge gate and poured over the great wooden planks. By
night and day the water cascaded down the gates, and skins of cattle were
soaked and spread only to be retrieved, soaked and spread again.
  The fire-breathing idol spewed flames from its mouth and nostrils in a
never-ending torrent, scorching wood and stone, and heating metal until it
glowed with a ruddy cast. The Ningaal tore apart the dwellings of the
townspeople to fuel the monster at the gates. Into a cavity at the idol’s
base they threw the lumber and oil that sent the flames and sparks gushing
from its white-hot mouth.
  On the evening of the thirteenth day an officer approached Ronsard
timidly. The knight rested on his arm and watched with weary dread as the
flames and water did battle one with the other, clouds of white steam
resulting from the conflict.
  “Lord Ronsard, I—” The man hesitated and fell silent.
  Ronsard swung his tired eyes toward the man. “Yes? Say anything but
that we are running out of water.” The thought had occurred to him often
during this long vigil.
  The man’s face went white; his mouth hung slack.
  “By Azrael! I meant it as a jest! Speak, man!”
  “What is the trouble?” Theido said as he strode up to relieve Ronsard at
his post. He was fresh and rested, eyes alert and tone confident.
  “I am trying to find out, sir,” said Ronsard hoarsely. “It seems the news
he brings steals his voice.”
  “Well? Speak, sir. We are stout enough to hear it.” Theido looked
furiously at the officer and folded his long arms across his chest.
  The man licked his lips and worked his jaw, but it was some moments
before any words tumbled out and when they did it was in a tangled rush.
“Lord Rudd has sent me... the water... supplies too low... we cannot last
the night.”
  Ronsard needed to hear no more and sent the man away. “That cuts us to
the quick. What are we to do now? Wait until our gates crumble away in
flames, or until we die of thirst? Which would come first, I wonder?”
  “We have our wits about us yet. But we have been too slow in
comprehending this menace, and that may be our undoing. I have an idea I
should have had days ago, but it may work yet. Quickly, send some of
your men to bring ropes and grappling hooks. Tell them to hurry, Ronsard,
and bring all they can find. There is little time.”
  Theido took his place on the barbican directly over the flame-throwing
idol. After soaking a long rope in water he tied a three-pronged grappling
hook onto one end and, leaning as far out over the wall as he dared, held
only in Myrmior’s and Ronsard’s steely grasp, he lowered the hook
toward the monster. The Ningaal, guessing his intent, howled with rage at
the sight as above them the long length of swinging rope snaked down the
face of the castle wall.
  After several futile attempts, Theido swung the hook out and by a
chance it caught on one of the iron beast’s fangs. He called for a group of
men to take the rope and pull it tight as he readied another rope and hook.
In the space of an hour he had another hook lodged in the idol’s horns.
The Ningaal were now in a maddened frenzy, helpless to prevent what
they feared might happen. They screamed in frustration as a third and then
a fourth rope snagged the fire monster.
  “That should suffice,” said Theido as he scrambled back to safety on the
battlements not a moment too soon, for the howling Ningaal had begun
launching rocks and flaming debris from slings and mangonels.
  “Do you think it will work?” asked Myrmior. He eyed Theido’s web of
rope and hooks suspiciously.
  “We will soon see. I can think of no better course.”
  “Then let us hope this one does not fail,” replied Ronsard. He signaled
the men, three hundred in all, holding the ropes to begin pulling. With a
mighty groan all heaved at once. There came a resounding roar from the
enraged Ningaal below as they saw the ropes pulled tight.
  “Heave, men!” shouted Ronsard. “Heave!”
  A few of the enemy, braving the arrows which still whistled through the
air on occasion, threw ropes of their own over the ropes Theido had
fastened to the idol. Now they skittered up these like spiders, armed with
knives which they carried in their teeth in the hope that they might
somehow cut the ropes binding their fire-breathing god and which
threatened to overturn it.
   The King’s archers managed to keep the ropes of the Ningaal
unoccupied, though at great price, for the warlords had appeared on the
scene and were directing the efforts to save their endangered machine. The
first act of the warlords was to order the mangonels to be filled with
flaming coals from the idol and these flung aloft into the archer’s faces.
More than one bowman fell screaming to his death after being struck with
the flaming debris.
   The ropes were pulled and pulled with force, but the iron image did not
move. Three hundred more men were ordered to the battlements, and the
ropes were lengthened to accommodate them. They heaved and pulled,
straining to their task until their hands bloodied the thick lines. But still the
idol stood.
   “It is not working,” observed Myrmior. “We need more ropes.”
   “We have no more,” reported Theido. “At least not the length we need.”
   “Then we must tie them together, and our cloaks and trousers too if
necessary. Your plan will work if we have more ropes.”
   “Wait! I hove a notion,” announced Ronsard. “What about chains?
There are long lengths of chain in the gatehouse below. Let the ropes be
fastened to the chains and the chains to the windlass of the drawbridge and
the counterbalance.”
   “Can such a thing be done?” wondered Theido. “It might mean
disengaging the drawbridge.”
   “It is a chance we mutt take. Send for the gatekeeper!”
   What Ronsard had proposed was done without great difficulty. The
massive drawbridge of Askelon was operated by not one, but two
windlasses and a system of counterweights. It was quick work to release
the chain and allow the ropes to be bundled and threaded through a large
iron ring. Then, with the counterweights once more in position a dozen
brawny men were placed on the windlass and began to turn.
   The chain wound around the windlass and disappeared into a hole in the
stone floor of the gatehouse. Theido and Ronsard dashed back to the
battlements above to see the effect of their labors.
   “It is working!” shouted Myrmior as they came panting up. “You lazy
geniuses! It is working. May the gods be praised!”
   They looked down to see the ropes stretched tight as harp strings. The
iron idol teetered ever so slightly as the ropes pulled it upward.
  “I pray those ropes can hold,” said Theido.
  “They will hold—you shall see,” replied Myrmior. “I have a feeling
about this. They will hold.”
  No sooner had Myrmior spoken than he was nearly proved wrong. One
of the ropes snapped; its ragged length sang through the air and lashed
four Ningaal to the ground as it struck like a whip. “Bring grease!” cried
Theido.
  “Stop pulling!” shouted Ronsard. The chain stopped moving as the men
at the windlass obeyed the Marshall’s order.
  Grease was brought up from the gatehouse in buckets and smeared on
the ropes and on the ledge of the crenelle where the ropes passed over the
stone. Two men were stationed to swab the grease onto the ropes as they
passed over the stone, and the windlass began turning again.
  In a few moments the flaming idol was slowly lifted up off the ground,
and then began to swing forward toward the gate. A tremendous knock
sounded as the enormous iron image banged into the drawbridge; smoke
from its fire rolled up the walls, stinging the eyes of the men at the
battlements.
  “Keep turning!” shouted Ronsard to the men below at the windlass. The
Pyrinbradam inched slowly up the drawbridge, its snout pressed against
the bridge’s planks, which began to smolder.
  “The gates are burning!” cried a voice from below.
  Ronsard shot a quick glance toward Myrmior and Theido. “I did not
foresee that.”
  “Do not turn away now,” said Myrmior. “Stay with your plan.”
  “Yes, just a little while longer,” agreed Theido, peering over the
battlements.
  “Bring water to the gates!” barked Ronsard. “Continue turning!”
  More water was poured down the outside of the gates to quench the fire
that had started. White billows of steam rose with the black smoke of the
flames.
  The idol rose a few more inches and then stopped. The men at the
windlass strained; the windlass creaked.
  “The cursed thing is caught on something,” called Theido. “I cannot see
what it is.”
  “Keep turning and perhaps it will come loose,” suggested Myrmior.
  “Put more men on the windlass! Keep turning,” ordered Ronsard.
  A dozen more strong men were added to the windlass and they fell to
with all their might. The windlass creaked in loud complaint, the ropes
stretched, and the chain moved but one link.
  “It is not working,” reported Theido. “Call them off. The gates have
caught fire again.”
  Ronsard moved to relay the orders below when there came a whooshing
sound and the ropes went slack. A thunderous crash was heard, and
everyone dashed to the battlements to see the flaming monster teetering on
the edge of the ramp. The ropes had burst under the strain and had
dropped the iron image back to the ground, where it had rolled to the edge
of the ramp and was in danger of toppling over the edge into the dry moat
below.
  The King’s men saw this and began to cheer wildly, urging the thing on
to its own destruction. Ningaal warriors, half-crazed with anger, leapt to
the dangling ropes in an attempt to haul it back from the brink. It appeared
as if they would succeed.
  The image righted and stopped rolling with two of its six huge wheels
spinning out over the chasm. Hundreds of Ningaal were now swarming to
the ropes and were tugging it back inch by inch. The cheering from the
battlements abated.
  “Well, we are in for it now, I fear,” sighed Theido. “No better off than
before.”
  “It was a good idea, my friend,” said Ronsard. “It almost worked. At
least we did not let the monster destroy our gates without a fight.”
  The enemy had placed long beams under the wheels and were
attempting to rock the ponderous image in order to allow the rearmost
wheels to be pulled back onto the ramp. But the rocking loosened one of
Theido’s hooks, and it broke free.
  “Look!” cried Myrmior. “We are saved!”
  Ronsard and Theido turned in time to see fifty men tumbling down the
ramp, grasping the end of a falling rope. The snap of the rope caused the
towering statue to lurch violently, teeter once and then plunge over the
edge, dragging a hundred men with it, still clinging to the lines.
  The terrible idol spewed fire as it spun slowly in the air, ropes snaking
after it with men attached like insects, plummeting to their deaths. The
idol landed on its wicked head and crumpled in a shower of sparks, one
arm breaking off and opening a great hole in its chest where flames leapt
up and showed those looking down from the battlements that the monster
was indeed ruined completely and many of its wretched keepers as well.
  “We are saved to fight another day!” shouted Ronsard happily.
  “Yes, but how many days will we last without water?” asked Theido, the
short-lived triumph dying in his eyes and his features giving way to the
black cast of despair.



                    FIFTY-THREE
   THE COUNCIL was held in Eskevar’s chambers with the King sitting
up in bed, frowning furiously and darting quick questions to his advisors.
Though he appeared even more gaunt and pale than ever, his eyes burned
intensely and his hands were steady as he shook his finger in the air.
   “This is not good!” he shouted. “It leaves us no choice but to fight them
on the plain. The siege can but kill us one by one as we drop from thirst.
   “We have a little water left, Sire,” put in the warder weakly.
   “How little?”
   “Three days. Four.”
   “So we prolong the agony that much longer. No, I will not see soldiers
weakened by thirst attempt to hold off the fall of Askelon. If Askelon falls,
it must be on the field of battle. If the end is to come, let it come. But let
us have our wits about us, and let us die with our swords in our hands.
   “We can at least give these barbarians a fight they will long remember.
This Nin will live to regret the day he set foot upon the soil of Mensandor,
though every one of us perish.”
   This fiery speech of the King greatly heartened several of the lords in
attendance. Rudd, Benniot and Fincher had grown restive during the siege.
Not men of patience, they itched to take up arms and meet the foe in fair
contest, even though—as greatly outnumbered as the King’s forces
were—there was nothing fair about it and not much of a contest. Still, the
idea of taking once and for all a stand worthy of brave men appealed to
them. They were ready to fight.
  “What say the rest?” asked Rudd when he and the others had spoken
their support of the King’s plan.
  Theido was slow in speaking, and as he stepped forward all eyes turned
toward him. “Sire, what you propose is the last desperate act of desperate
men. I do not think we are pressed that far just yet. I say we should wait a
few days. Much can happen in that time, and we are safe within these
gates. The Ningaal have done their worst and have failed. I think we may
yet prevail against them if we but wait a little.”
  “The time for waiting is over! It is time now to act. We have waited
these many days, and we are no better for it. I am with the King; let us
fight and die like men since we have no better choice.” Rudd threw a
defiant look around the room and gathered support for his position with
his fearless tone.
  “I am much inclined to agree with you, Rudd,” said Ronsard. “And
when the time comes to stand toe to toe with the enemy, you will find me
in the foremost rank. But there is good counsel in waiting. Three or four
days may mean much. The lords of the north may yet appear at any time,
and we would do well to be ready in that event.
  “I say let the time be spent in readying ourselves to fight, but hold off
the fighting until we must.” Ronsard’s logic cooled several heads which
had been hot to rush into battle that very moment.
  “What do you say, Myrmior?” asked Eskevar. “Your counsel has been
invaluable to us in these last days. Speak. Tell us what you would have us
do.”
  Myrmior looked sadly at the King and at those around him. His large
dark eyes seemed wells of grief, and sorrow tinged his deep voice. “I have
no counsel to give, my Lord. I have said all I thought best, and it has
brought us to this extremity. I will speak no more but rather take my place
alongside these men worthy to be called your loyal subjects and lift my
blade with theirs against the hated foe.”
  The effect of Myrmior’s words was like that of a pronouncement of
doom. He had said in a few words what most of them felt but had resisted
giving words to: There is no hope. We must prepare to die.
  “Sire,” said Theido, coming near to the bed, “let us not act hastily in this
matter. Let us rather withdraw from here for a time and search our hearts
before pressing for a decision.”
   Rudd, too, stepped up, shouting, “And I say we must not wait. Every
day we stand by our men will grow weaker and our chances worsen. Now
is the time to strike!”
   The room fell silent as everyone looked to the King to see what he
would do. “Noble lords,” he said gravely, “I will not force you to a
decision. Neither will I tax you further with waiting which can belabor a
man’s spirit.”
   They all watched him intently. Theido noticed the set of the Dragon
King’s jaw and knew what was coming before the words were spoken.
“Therefore, I say that we will ride out tomorrow and engage the enemy,
that what little advantage there may be in surprise we may carry with us.
Go now and look to your men. See that they are well-fed and made ready.
Tomorrow at dusk I will lead them into battle.”
   The lords murmured their approval and left at once to begin preparing
for combat. Theido and Ronsard lingered and spoke to the King in an
effort to change his mind. But he turned a deaf ear to them and sent them
away. After they had gone, Queen Alinea came in to spend one last night
at the side of her King.
   Eskevar had chosen dusk to lead the attack because reports from his
sentries had it that the enemy’s watch on the postern gate was reduced at
that time, while the Ningaal took their evening meal. It was a bold move
and a clever one. It was to be assumed that an attack by the castle dwellers
would issue from the main gate—here it was that the warlords had
positioned their greater strength in anticipation of such a move. The
postern gate, being smaller and the long crooked ramp that led from it
being walled and narrow, permitted knights to ride but three abreast.
   These things Eskevar took into consideration and decided the result was
favorable. He would achieve a fair measure of surprise in such a
maneuver, and he would catch the Ningaal unprepared and in the wrong
position to begin a battle. They would mass quickly as the call to arms was
given, he knew, but by that time he hoped to have his own men ranged
upon the plain and ready, having already dispatched a goodly number of
the foe.
   The Dragon King and his army spent the day preparing and positioning
men and horses to move through the postern yards and through the gates
as quickly as possible.
   When all was ready, a hush fell over the wards and yards where the men
waited. The sun sank in the west, a great crimson orb, and the Wolf Star
shone fiercely in the east, shedding its cold, harsh light upon all who
huddled beneath it. The villagers and peasants gathered to send their
champions forth, and to pray to all the gods they knew for the victory.
Women cried and kissed the brave knights; horses snorted and stamped
their feet; children stood stiff-legged and stared round-eyed at the men in
their glittering armor.
   At the far end of the ward yard a commotion arose, and those at the near
end craned their necks to see the banner of the Dragon King lofted on its
standard and wavering toward them as a path opened before it. And then
there was the King himself, sitting erect upon a milk-white stallion that
pranced in trotting steps toward the gate. Over his silver armor he wore a
royal blue coat which had the dragon emblem worked in gold. His helm
bore no crest but the simple gold circlet of his crown. Flanking him on
either hand two grim knights, one astride a black charger, the other riding
a sorrel, gazed resolutely ahead. The shield of the dark knight bore the
device of a hawk; the blazon of the other showed a mace and flail held in a
gauntleted fist.
   Behind them rode Myrmior who, after the fashion of his own people,
wore no armor, but carried only a light round shield and a short sword.
Ronsard, however, had prevailed upon him to don greaves, and a brassard
for his sword arm at least. He had refused a helm, complaining that it was
impossible to see out of the iron pot.
   They passed through the yard to the gate, followed by ranks of nobles
and knights three abreast. When they reached their position, the King
raised his hand and the procession stopped. He looked to the gatekeeper
who, peering down from the barbican, nodded in return, declaring that the
Ningaal had moved off from the gate leaving only a small force to watch.
Then Eskevar, his face gray and hard, his eyes gleaming cold in the evil
light of the star, drew his sword with his right hand. It whispered softly as
it issued from the scabbard, but the sound soon filled the ward as the
movement was repeated a thousand times over. The heavy iron portcullis
was raised and the plank let down over the dry moat. And the Dragon
King rode out to battle.
   The Ningaal at the postern gate were scattered as chaff on the threshing-
floor. Several of them foolishly drew their weapons and were cut down
before they could lift their hands; the rest ran howling to sound the alarm
that the defenders had broken free and were in pursuit.
  Eskevar turned the attack not toward the town, where the main body of
the enemy waited, but to the more lightly manned cordon which had been
thrown around the castle. This tactic proved successful, for the thundering
knights easily routed the ill-prepared foe and dispersed a great many who
could have formed a second front if given the chance. No sooner had this
been accomplished than the knights wheeled to face the charge sweeping
down around the castle rock behind them.
  The full force of Eskevar’s army met this hastily assembled attack and
drove through it with little hurt. They then moved quickly on to thrust into
the larger of the Ningaal’s many siege camps, where several thousand of
the enemy had gathered to eat and sleep that night. The sight of three
thousand knights charging through their camp banished all thoughts of
food and slumber from their barbarian minds as the camp instantly became
a boiling caldron of confusion and terror.
  The Ningaal were caught unaware; the alarm had not reached them
before the knights’ fierce attack. In moments the scene was one of fire and
blood, of rearing horses and slashing blades. Many of the Ningaal fled
from the camp rather than face the fierce justice of the King’s swords. And
for a fleeting moment it appeared to the defenders that the Ningaal would
be overcome and crushed.
  But that notion faded with the appearance of two warlords astride black
war-horses, rallying their panic-stricken troops with cool control.
  The knights had encompassed the camp and had driven through to the
center of it. Seeing the warlords bringing their scattered regiments
together, Eskevar sent a company of knights against them to quell that
opposition before it could materialize in force. The rest strove to keep the
Ningaal running and confused, not allowing them time to coalesce into a
unified front.
  But too soon the body of knights surrounding the camp was outflanked
by a larger ring of bellowing Ningaal led by the two other warlords. These
began pressing forward, pushing the knights inward, shrinking the
diameter of the circle by force of superior numbers. It seemed that no
matter how many of the enemy were killed, there were more standing than
had been there before.
  Eskevar realized that the position was indefensible. With Theido on his
right and Ronsard on his left, the Dragon King led a withering charge
toward a weak section of the circle. There was a tremendous clash and
many knights fell into the wall of Ningaal axe-blades, never to rise again.
But the circle bowed and broke, and the King led his soldiers out upon the
plain.
  When they reached a place in the center of the plain, half a league from
the castle, Eskevar halted and turned to face the enemy which was now
massing for the final assault.



                     FIFTY-FOUR
  THE WARLORDS, perceiving that the victory was theirs to be won, did
not rush at once to the attack. They waited, gathering their forces and
ordering their troops for the final conflict. This gave the Dragon King time
to position his knights as well, placing them in stout ranks around scores
of footmen with pike and spear who had joined them from the castle.
  The first clash with the Ningaal found the Dragon King ready and
waiting at the forefront of his army. The bellowing mob, with battle-axes
swinging, rushed down upon the Dragon King’s forces from the upper
plain, led by two warlords. The two remaining warlords held a vast
number of their foul flock in reserve.
  Amut and Luhak rode with the charge and were met with a wall of steel.
The Dragon King’s knights, fighting with a strength born of desperation,
held the line against the warlord’s fearsome bodyguard and reduced that
number effectively. The Ningaal axe-men boiled onto the field like a
tempest-driven flood. Though they beat against the armored knights with
terrible blows of their cruel axes, the defenders withstood all.
  At the end of an hour’s time the attack broke off and the warlord’s
withdrew—to the cheers of the knights—leaving the field dark with the
blood of their fallen.
  Theido, astride his charger on the King’s right hand, lifted his visor and
looked over the battlefield. “We have made a good account of ourselves,”
he said. “What is more, we have not suffered much loss.”
  “Even one man is too many, brave sir,” said Ronsard, from his place on
the King’s left. “They propose to wear us down one by one if need be,
until there is none left standing,”
  “By Azrael!” said Eskevar, “it is the only way they will take Askelon.
But we are far from defeated yet. And I have a plan that may confound
them. Theido, gather the commanders. I would speak to them before the
next attack.”
  They met on the field and the King spoke hurriedly, finishing just as the
rolling whoop of the advancing enemy once more filled the air. As the
Ningaal closed on the defenders for the second time, there was a stirring
within the King’s army and the attack met not a solid wall this time, but a
rank which gave way before them. The enemy was instantly drawn inside
the ring, like water into a flask, and then the stopper was replaced, cutting
off the axe-men from their leaders, who were now inside. Thus the battle
began with the Ningaal herded together within a palisade of stinging
blades.
  No one in the enemy’s camp noticed the small force which broke away
from the rear of the Dragon King’s army and made its way back to the
castle.
  Once more the King’s knights stood to the task, hewing down the enemy
before them. The pike-men worked among the flashing hooves of the
horses to bring the warlords’ bodyguard down, where they were pierced
with spears. The Ningaal axe-men, separated from their commanders
within the palisade, ran screaming around the outer ring, throwing
themselves ineffectually upon the unforgiving lances of the knights.
  Warlords Gurd and Boghaz, watching from a distance, soon realized
what had happened and readied a second wave to smash the outer ring of
the King’s defenses and thus lay open the battle for a speedy end.
  Mounted upon their sturdy black steeds, they swept down into the fray.
They had nearly reached the field of combat when their attack faltered and
broke apart amidst a deadly flight of arrows. The Ningaal fell in such
numbers that the warlords pulled up short of engaging the King and
swerved to meet the archers who were now running to join their comrades
on the plain, having staved off the second wave. The archers, who had
been left behind to defend Askelon in its last need, were led by Myrmior
and several of the boldest knights. They had been sent to bring the archers
as part of Eskevar’s plan to divide and confuse the enemy.
  The charging Ningaal could not draw within blade range of the archers
and were at last forced to retreat and regroup. The archers reached the
plain with ease, and the air sang with their killing missiles. Within
moments of their arrival, the Ningaal withdrew once more and left the
field to the Dragon King.
  “We have not fared so well this time,” said Theido, once more surveying
the carnage around him. “We have lost many good men. Perhaps too many
to withstand another charge.”
  “Withstand we must!” shouted Eskevar. “We must hold.”
  “We have surprised them twice. I do not think we will again,” said
Ronsard. “But we have stood them a battle that will be sung in the halls of
brave men everywhere. That is something to take with us. Yet I begin to
think that if we last this day, we may yet turn the tide of battle in our
favor.”
  “If Wertwin were as good as his word and brought the armies of
Ameronis, Lupollen and the others with him, I would agree with you,”
said Theido. He turned his eyes to the north but saw nothing moving on
the horizon. “But even if they came now, I think it would be too late.”
  “Do not talk so!” charged the King. “We will prepare to meet the attack
with courage.”
  “As you say, my Lord.” Theido looked at his King and his noble heart
swelled within him almost to burst, for he seemed to see a dark shape, like
the wings of a raven, hovering around the King’s shoulder. When the
knight spoke again, it was with a voice choked with sorrow. “You have
ever shown us courage, my King. Lead us and we will follow through the
gates of death itself.”
  Eskevar’s face shone fierce in the strange white light of the star, shining
as bright as day. But when he spoke it was with a gentler tone. “You have
served me well, brave friends. I have trusted you with my life on more
occasions than a king ought, but I have never found you wanting.” He
stopped and looked long at each of them before continuing.
  “This is how I want to be remembered—turned out in my finest armor at
the head of loyal men and brave. This is how I would enter the rest of my
fathers.”
  Ronsard raised a hand to protest, but Eskevar waved him silent.
“Enough of dying,” he said. “Now to arms! For the enemy once more
draws near.”
  Across the broken battlefield, now slippery with the blood of the dead
and dying, the Ningaal advanced, slowly this time, behind a vanguard of
horsemen with flaming pikes. The four warlords had positioned
themselves so as to command a phalanx of troops ahead and behind them.
This time there would be no force held in reserve, and there would be no
tricks, for they moved over the plain step by step, wary of the slightest
shift among the soldiers of the Dragon King.
   The baleful Wolf Star burned down upon the scene with its hateful light,
bright as noonday sun, casting shadows all around. It seemed to grow
larger and to fill the sky, making the forlorn moon rising in the east a pale
and insignificant thing.
   Eskevar turned his face to the Wolf Star. “Surely that is an evil thing. I
feel its fire in my bones. How it burns. Ronsard, Theido”— he turned to
them both—”do you feel it?”
   “It is the heat of battle I feel, Sire,” offered Ronsard. “Aye, that, too,”
agreed Eskevar. The King seemed to come once more to himself and
looked out across the battlefield, now rolling in the smoke of the fiery
pikes of the Ningaal.
   “If they think us slow-witted enough to wait here like cattle for the
slaughter, they are mistaken,” said Eskevar as he glared out over the field.
“Assemble the commanders!” he called. A trumpeter sent the message
ringing in the air.
   “We will charge them there—in the center,” said the King, pointing
toward the advancing body of the enemy with his long sword. “We will
show them how the knights of Mensandor value their lives.”
   “Aye,” agreed the gathered lords, their armor battered and bloody, but
their faces still eager in the light of the hateful star.
   “And we will show them how the knights of Mensandor value their
freedom,” shouted Rudd. “For glory!” The nobleman raised his voice and
led them in a rousing battle chant.
   “Go back to your men,” instructed Eskevar. “Be ready, and wait for my
signal.” Eskevar took his place at the head of his knights. Theido and
Ronsard stayed at either side.
   Theido, guessing the end was near, looked across to his friend Ronsard
and offered a wordless salute. This was the long dark road he had seen so
long ago. Now that it stretched before him he did not fear it, though it
saddened him. He wanted to speak some final word to his friend, but none
would come. The salute said all.
   “Farewell, brave friend,” said Ronsard as he returned the salute. He
closed the visor of his helm and raised the point of his sword toward
Theido.
   “For Mensandor!” cried Eskevar suddenly. His voice sounded clear and
strong as thunder as it carried across the plain. He raised his sword and
spurred his courser forward, and with a roar the army of the Dragon King
leaped as one into furious motion.
   The shock of the clash as the charging knights met the stubborn Ningaal
shook the earth. Horses screamed and wheeled, plunging and plunging
again. Knights cut the air with mace and flail; swords flashed and spears
thrust and bowstrings sang.
   Eskevar’s white stallion could be seen dashing straightway into the thick
of the fighting. Ronsard, bold and bright, defended his King’s left with a
tireless arm. Time and again the champion’s sword whirled through the
air, dealing death with every blow. Theido guarded the King’s right and
strove to keep himself between his Lord and the bloodthirsty axes of the
barbarian horde.
   Here and there amidst the furious melee the standards of the
Mensandorean lords could be seen as islands of defenders, surrounded by
a sea of enemy fighting men, labored to remain abreast of one another. But
one by one the standards fell, some never to rise again, as the long night of
battle wore on.
   The daring attack of the Dragon King produced at length an unexpected
result. So fiercely did the King’s army fight, and so well, that they
succeeded in punching through the center of the Ningaal formation.
Despite the enemy’s superior force, the defenders cut a wide swath
through the heart of the warlords’ offensive and in time came together
behind the Ningaal lines.
   “This is unexpected!” cried Eskevar, breathing heavily and leaning
forward in his saddle. “Our cause is not yet lost. Look there! See Rudd
drives through to join us, and yonder Fincher and Benniot.”
   Theido looked at the swirling maelstrom before him and separated the
shapes of the Dragon King’s knights from the darker forms of the Ningaal.
The din of the fight rang loud in his ears, but he did see the faintest
glimmer of hope that the battle could be won, as Eskevar had said. Their
charge had scattered the larger part of the Ningaal and had divided them
like a wedge. The warlords of Nin circled round the outside of the battle
storm and sought to rejoin their troops, but in vain. The enemy was falling
away in droves.
  “Is it true?” shouted Ronsard, throwing his visor up to view the contest.
  “Yes!” agreed Theido. “See how they crowd toward the center—their
own numbers crush them. If we direct a sally there, we can further divide
them.”
  “By the gods! You are right. Trumpeter! Rally the men. Onward we
go!” Eskevar urged his steed once more ahead, and the Ningaal felt the
heat of his blade like a flame kindled against them. The King’s knights
formed a spearhead which drove through the milling mass and cut it down.
Ningaal warriors forgot their discipline and ran screaming from the
battlefield in great numbers; their commanders slew many deserters with
their own hands in order to stop the rout.
  This second charge was successful, and the defenders took heart that
they might indeed carry the victory. With jubilant whoops and courageous
battle cries they stood shoulder to shoulder and fought, urging one another
to greater deeds of valor.
  By the time the sickly moon had advanced two hours’ time, the army of
the Dragon King had for the first time taken the upper hand in the battle.
The warlords were fighting a defensive action, seeking a retreat whereby
they could regroup their lagging regiments. But Eskevar and his
commanders, though suffering from fatigue and the terrible attrition of
their numbers, doggedly struggled on to put the invaders to flight.
  At midnight an entire Ningaal regiment broke and ran from the field.
The sight of the beaten enemy dragging itself away from the combat
greatly heartened the defenders, who sent a cheer aloft which reached
Askelon and was echoed by the fearful refugees who peered anxiously
from the battlements of the fortress.
  “We can seize the day!” shouted Eskevar. “The barbarians have lost the
heart to win.”
  “Sire, let us pursue them and drive them from the field,” said Ronsard.
“But you remain here where your soldiers can see you. Gather your
strength.”
  “Yes, my Lord,” agreed Theido. “Let your commanders earn some
glory. Do not endanger yourself further. Rest a little, and regain your
strength.”
  Eskevar glared dully at his knights as he sat hunched in his saddle,
unable to sit erect any longer. His visor was open, and his face showed
white with exhaustion. He shook his head wearily and replied, “I will rest
when the day has been saved—and not before. If my knights wish to see
me they must look toward the heart of battle, for that is where I will be.”
  Theido and Ronsard exchanged worried glances. They would have
preferred to have their King stand off from battle at least for a time.
Theido was about to protest further when Eskevar closed his visor and
jerked the reins, plunging once more into the clash. The two trusted
knights had no choice but to surge after him and protect him however they
could.
  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.
  Quentin glanced down and saw his friends Theido and Ronsard kneeling
over the body of Eskevar. He read the sadness in their eyes and knew the
Dragon King was dead.
  Without a word Quentin wheeled Blazer around and leaped after the
fleeing Ningaal. An unspeakable grief seized his mind and Quentin had no
thought but to drive the hated enemy, before him, to ride until he could
ride no more, to the sea and beyond. In his mindless grief he drove straight
toward Nin the Destroyer and his fifty thousand panic-stricken warriors.
The Ningaal parted before the invincible knight with the flaming sword, as
waves before the tempest.
   Quentin saw nothing distinctly; it was as if he had entered a dream. Pale
shapes moved before him, rolling away on either side like clouds; the
night sky was filled with a burning white light. Then there was a darkness
before him which rose up in a seething mass.
   Zhaligkeer flashed in his hand. Quentin raised himself in the saddle and
flung the sword skyward with a mighty shout. The sword spun in the air,
and it seemed that as it reached the apex of its arc it suddenly exploded
with a blinding crack that showered tongues of fire all around.
   The sky went white, and every man threw his hands before his face to
save his eyes. None dared look upon the terrible splendor of the moment.
It seemed to Quentin that he entered his vision, for he was once more the
knight standing upon a darkling plain wearing the shining armor and
lofting a blazing sword which burned into the heart of the darkness
gathered round about.
   There was a shudder in the air, and he felt the fire rush through him.
Though the lightning danced blinding waves around him, he opened his
eyes and saw the darkness roll away, revealing a city splendid and
beautiful, shimmering in the light as if carved of fine gold and gems. The
exquisite sight brought Quentin to his knees.
   He threw his hands before his face to blot out the vision, and the tears
came rising up as from a spring. In that moment he felt in his inmost soul
the hand of the Most High God upon him.
   When Quentin raised his head, he was alone and the night was dark. The
Wolf Star had disappeared in a great flash. Some said that the Shining One
had reached up into the sky and smote the star and extinguished it, for it
vanished in the same instant that Quentin had thrown the sword.
   Zhaligkeer had fallen to earth and was found buried to the hilt in the
obscene body of the Immortal Nin. The Conqueror of Kings lay dead,
pinned to the ground like a serpent. His unhappy minions, witnessing the
swift miracle of their cruel lord’s death, fled screaming over the plain.
Their pitiful cries filled the night as they sought to escape the justice that
would soon overtake them. The warlords of Nin fell upon their swords and
joined their loathsome sovereign in his well-deserved fate.
  Quentin returned to the place where Eskevar lay. Together with Theido
and Ronsard and the lords and knights of Mensandor, he picked up the
body of the King and, lifting it upon his shoulders, bore it away to
Askelon.



                        FIFTY-SIX
  THE FUNERAL of the Dragon King lasted three days and his mourning
continued for thirty. During this time Wertwin and the armies of
Ameronis, Lupollen and the others arrived—greatly saddened and contrite,
for news of the King’s death had overtaken them on the way. They were
sent in pursuit of the Ningaal who were fleeing back along the Arvin
toward the sea where their ships still waited. The lords slew many of the
enemy in their flight, and the rest were driven into the sea at lance point.
  Eskevar’s body was taken at once to the castle, where it was placed
upon his own bed. Durwin, aided by Biorkis, came to minister to the body,
washing it and composing it for entombment. Inchkeith worked long hours
over the King’s armor, pounding out the dents inflicted upon it in the last
battle, and shining it bright as new. Queen Alinea herself dressed her
husband in his finest garments; Bria and Esme adorned him with his most
treasured jewels. And then he was taken to the great hall, where he was
solemnly laid upon his bier.
  The King’s body lay in the great hall for two days, guarded by a
sorrowful contingent of knights and nobles throughout the day and night
while a steady procession of tearful subjects filed past the litter. The
miserable wailing of the peasants filled the ward yards, and afflicted
citizens roamed the streets of the town, inconsolable in their grief. The
great Dragon King had passed; no one had ever thought to see that dark
day.
  Quentin remained in his chamber and would see no one. He did not even
venture to the battlements to watch the funeral pyres of all the brave dead
of the King’s proud army as they burned upon the plain. He held himself
to blame for the King’s death, reasoning that if he had arrived but a few
heartbeats sooner Eskevar would still be alive. Only Toli was allowed in
to serve his master. But Quentin’s needs were few, for he would neither
eat nor sleep, but sat slumped in a chair before the darkened, empty hearth.
  At midnight on the second day Quentin bestirred himself and crept
quietly to the great hall. The mourners had gone, and no one lingered in
the hall except the ten knights standing as statues of stone around the
body. Torches burned on standards at the four corners of the bier, casting a
soft, hazy light over the pall. Quentin moved close, mounting the flower-
strewn platform to kneel beside the body.
  In the lambent glow the King’s features were relaxed and calm; except
for the unnatural stillness, he might have been asleep. Gone were the
traces of the illness which had so wasted his noble frame.
  Gone, too, were the lines of care and concern which had creased his
visage of late. The years seemed to have been rolled away, and Quentin
saw a younger Eskevar than he had known. His hair was dark and swept
back over his temples. The high forehead was smooth, the nose straight
and well-formed above a firm but not ungentle mouth. The hard jut of the
jaw had been softened, revealing a man at peace within himself, and the
deeply cleft chin spoke of the unflinching purpose of the man who had
been.
  The King wore his armor and held his helm nestled under his left arm.
His sword lay upon his chest, where it was held at the hilt in his right
hand. The writhing dragon device on the King’s breastplate seemed to
twist and wink in the firelight. A cloak of royal blue edged in silver and
gold was fastened at the throat by a golden chain and the King’s favorite
dragon brooch. Eskevar appeared ready to leap to his feet and ride once
more to the trumpet’s call.
  Quentin bowed his head, and hot tears fell upon the bier. He recalled so
vividly the time when he had seen his King just so, held in the evil
Nimrood’s spell. Then, by an impossible miracle, the necromancer’s
enchantment had been broken and the Dragon King freed to live again.
But it was a far more powerful sorcery that embraced the King now, one
that claimed all men in the end and from which there was no release.
  Quentin heard a soft step behind him, and he felt a light touch on his
shoulder. He glanced up to see Queen Alinea, dressed all in sable, looking
down on him, her green eyes deep pools of sorrow, but shining more
beautifully for the compassion with which she regarded him.
  “I have sought you these past two days, my son.” The Queen spoke
softly, and the tone eased Quentin’s troubled heart. He did not speak.
  “You must not blame yourself, for in the end he chose his own course,
as he ever did. It was his wish to die serving the kingdom he loved. And of
all his loves this one, his love for his realm, claimed his highest devotion.
He was a king first and a man only second.”
  “Thank you for your words, my Lady. They do soothe me well. I will
not blame myself, though I did at first. I know now that his course was set
for him long ago. He would not bend to another.”
  “Not and remain Eskevar for very long. Look at him, Quentin. See how
peacefully he slumbers. Death held no terror for him; he had conquered it
many times. The thing he feared and hated most was that his realm would
fall before him and he would not be able to save it. That gnawed at him; it
poisoned his last days. But he conquered that, too, in the end.”
  “How well you knew him, Alinea.”
  “Knew him? Perhaps I knew him as well as anyone could. And I loved
him with all my heart. He loved me, too, in his way. But a King does not
belong to himself, or to his family. He belongs to his kingdom. Eskevar
felt this more intimately than any I have known. He died for Mensandor as
he lived for it.
  “But there was much that even I did not know of him. The long years of
war, years away from his home, took more than time away from us. Many
was the night I cried out in loneliness for my husband and would have had
a strong hand to hold my own. There was none. Eskevar was away,
fighting for his kingdom. Even when he returned he never rested; he was
always turning his eyes here and there, searching every remote corner of
Mensandor for any sign of weakness or trouble.
  “He once told me—by way of apology, I think—’If you seek to know
me, know first my kingdom.’ He was Mensandor; its life was his.”
  Quentin looked upon the dead monarch, realizing there was much he
would never know of the man who had adopted him to be his own. “Now
that he is dead, what will happen to his realm?” he wondered aloud.
  “It shall live on in the life of the new Dragon King,” murmured the
Queen softly. She bent over her husband’s body and removed the dragon
brooch and chain. She then turned and drew Quentin to his feet, “You will
find this to be far heavier than the weight of its gold, my dear one. But he
wanted you to have it, and all that goes with it.”
  Quentin shook his head slowly, fingering the golden brooch which the
Queen had fastened on his cloak. “I was never his son. As much as I love
you both and am grateful for your kindness to me these many years, I am
not fit to be King.”
   “Who would be better?”
   “His true-born son, perhaps.”
   “You know he had no male heir. But I shall tell you something. I have
always thought it strange that a man who valued his throne so highly
would have—”
   “Given it away so freely,” muttered Quentin.
   “No, he did not give it away at all, Quentin. You see, Bria was born just
before Eskevar went to war with Goliah. When he learned that I could
have no other children, and his one offspring was female, I expected him
to be angry. I offered to relinquish my crown so that he could take another,
but he would not hear of it. He said he was content, that he would trust
whatever god that ruled him to provide an heir when the time came. He
never spoke of it again.
   “So when he chose you to be his ward, I knew he had found his heir.
How he knew, I cannot say. But he saw something in you that pleased him
very much.”
   “It seemed a kingly whim to me, my Lady. Not that I was not overjoyed
to receive his high favor. But as much as I loved him and Askelon, Dekra
is my home. He must have known that.”
   “It did not matter. He wanted for you only your happiness. He knew that
when the time came you would fulfill his hopes and expectations, so deep
was his trust.”
   “I hope he was not mistaken. I pray he was not,” said Quentin. Alinea
looked upon the still form of the King and, drawing a long breath, turned
away at last, offering Quentin her hand.
   “He was not mistaken, my son. All is as it should be—as he would have
had it. You will see.”
   Quentin cast a last glance toward the body and withdrew with Alinea on
his arm. Their footsteps echoed in the darkened hall, and when they had
gone silence again reclaimed her own.
   The next morning the body of the King was taken to the Ring of the
Kings, the ancestral resting place of the Mensandorean monarchs
established within the green walls of Pelgrin Forest.
   The funeral cortege, made up of knights and nobles on horseback and
loyal subjects on foot, wound through the hastily cleared streets of
Askelon. Townspeople stood among the ashes of their ruined city to pay a
last farewell to their sovereign. Quentin rode on Blazer, next to Alinea and
directly behind the funeral wain. Bria and Durwin followed and were in
turn followed by Theido and Ronsard, who led the procession of
noblemen. Others came on in turn, riding beneath their colorful devices
and banners. At the head of the cortege the Dragon King’s own standard
carried his red dragon hung with pennons of black.
   The King rode to his tomb on his bier beneath a sky of radiant blue
sown with tufts of white clouds. A cool wind freshened the summer air
and bore sorrow far away, though here and there a tear still sparkled in an
eye. The sun shown down upon the body of Eskevar fair and full, and the
wind ruffled his hair as his armor glinted hard and bright in the sun.
   Eskevar was placed in one of the beehive-shaped barrows within the
ring—the very barrow Quentin had found him in years before to rescue
him from Nimrood’s fell scheme. The barrow was clean and well-ordered,
having been swept and appointed by Oswald, the Queen’s chamberlain.
   With much ceremony and dignity Eskevar was laid to rest upon his
stone slab, which had been spread with fur coverlets from his bed. His
most highly prized possessions were placed about him, and when all had
looked their last upon the King, the tomb was sealed and the entrance
filled in with earth. Quentin assisted in this work rather than stand by and
watch. And when it was over, he turned away and did not look back.
   As the funeral party emerged from the green silence of the Ring of the
Kings, they were met by a party of lords, led by Wertwin. The noblemen
bowed in their saddles and gazed down at Quentin, who still walked
beside the Queen, holding her arm. “We are told,” began Wertwin, “that
you are to be the King’s choice to succeed his throne.”
   “I am,” Quentin said flatly. No one could determine from his tone how
he felt about the matter.
   Wertwin appeared disconcerted and glanced at the lords around him.
“We mean to offer you our fealty,” he explained.
   Quentin only stared at them. “He who wields the Shining One is our
King!” said someone from among them. A chorus of hearty approval
endorsed this statement. From somewhere nearby Toli appeared, bearing a
sword in his arms. Quentin smiled at his servant and took the sword.
   He felt the quick warmth of its grip as it touched his fingers and he
heard the blade whisper as he drew it forth. Then suddenly the forest glade
was awash in a brilliant light as Quentin lofted the sword for all to see.
  The assembled lords dismounted at once and came forward to gather
around him and to kneel. Quentin held the sword high and said, “May the
god whose power burns in this blade burn in me as well. I will accept your
fealty.”
  The forest rang with cheers and shouts of acclaim. Theido and Ronsard
shouldered their way to his side and clapped him on the back, and then he
was borne away on the shoulders of his loyal subjects.
  A jubilant parade returned to Askelon, in marked contrast to the one that
had issued from those gates earlier in the day. Although the official period
of mourning would continue for many more days, from that moment the
healing process throughout the ravaged land was begun. In Eskevar all the
dead were buried and the old order laid to rest. In Quentin the new order
was present with a promise bright as the future which shone like the light
of the Shining One at his side.
  A new age had dawned, and a new king had been chosen to lead the
way. And of all those who reveled in it and welcomed it, only Durwin, the
faithful hermit of Pelgrin Forest, knew it for what it was: the Priest King
had come at last. The promise of the ages had been fulfilled.