Then, miraculously, the sword was in his hand. He grasped the cold steel blade and pulled it down. But his strength was gone. He could not raise the sword or strike out with it. Instead, the honed blade lay in his benumbed hand, and he merely looked at it glinting in the darkness as he felt the black mists of death gathering over him.
He wanted to give up, to let go, to step into that peaceful calm that awaited him. He could hear a sound, like the rush of wind or a thousand voices calling out. He had an image of clouds heaving up and then parting. He was moving through the clouds, falling.
The clouds parted and he saw below him the battle lines on the plains of Askelon. There were his friends, dug in behind their ditch. He saw the charge and heard the clash of arms. Then the vision faded and he felt a warmth bathe his limbs as a deep sleepiness overtook him. He felt himself slipping away…
“No!” he shouted, jerking himself back from the brink. “No-o-o!” his voice echoed back to him from the vaulted walls of the tomb.
The sword lay limply in his slack hand. He grasped it and felt the steel cut into the flesh of his fingers. The pain sharpened his mind.
He swiveled his head and saw the serpent’s head weaving above him. The monster moved, rolling him over to deliver the death blow. Quentin drew the sword to his breast.
The serpent’s glowing eyes stared into his own, the black-forked tongue flickered as the wicked head descended. In the same instant Quentin raised the sword.
The head swung down. Quentin felt the sword suddenly wrenched from his hands. He heard a raging hiss and opened his eyes to see the sword sticking through the serpent’s mouth and out the back of its head. The monster had impaled itself upon the sword.
The coils loosened as the snake began to thrash upon the floor. In an instant Quentin had another arm free and then he was on his knees. He dragged himself aside as the serpent rolled into a seething ball to crush itself in its own coils. The creature writhed and squirmed as its movements grew more and more erratic.
At last, with one final terrible convulsion, the serpent lay still.
Quentin knelt, hands on the cold stone, dragging the cool air into his lungs in racking gulps. He heard a queer bubbling sizzle and glanced up to see the monstrous creature begin to shrivel and wriggle, melting together. Quentin stared. Green smoke issued from its body, covered it, and then it was gone. A trailing tendril of smoke curled up where the awful serpent had lain. And then that too vanished.
Quentin rested panting at the edge of the bier and allowed life to return. His ribs ached and his hand, where he had gripped the sword, stung. He looked down to see blood dripping from his fingers. He drew a long, shaky breath and turned toward the King. The eerie, blue radiance which had surrounded his body was gone-as if whatever life force had clung to the remnant had been extinguished.
A pang of grief stabbed through his heart, for it appeared to him that now, beyond all doubt, the King lay dead. No breath stirred the great chest. No presence remained.
Quentin turned to go. There was nothing to be done.
But to have found him and then to leave seemed to Quentin grievously inappropriate.
Quentin bowed his head and offered up a prayer. “Father of Life,” he prayed, using Toli’s name for the god, “return the life of our King.” He thought for a moment and added, “Raise up a champion to lead us in victory over our enemies…” He stopped then because he could think of nothing more to say.
He stepped close to the King’s body and reached out to touch the cold, lifeless face. As he extended his hand, a drop of blood fell from his fingertip and splashed onto the King’s lip.
He stared at the crimson splotch.
In the faint light from the tomb’s entrance he imagined he saw color seeping out from the drop of blood, spreading over the features of the King. He stared transfixed as a wondrous change occurred.
The King’s stiff features softened; the cold, gray flesh warmed and took on the appearance of life. Quentin watched, not daring to move, not daring to blink or look away. He saw color return to the Lifeless hands crossed upon his breast. He saw the tiny beat of a pulse appear just below the jaw.
A silver light seemed to emanate from the King’s countenance-a radiance which quickened the still features. It grew until Quentin could not bear to look upon it. He threw an arm over his eyes, and when he looked again the light was gone and he saw the quiver of an eyelid and heard the long sigh of air drawn in through the nostrils.
Quentin dropped to his knees. Tears trickled down his cheeks to splatter in the dust of the vault. He bowed his head for a brief moment in silent thanksgiving. He heard a low moan, and rose to his feet and bent over the King. Another sigh and King Eskevar opened his eyes.
In all that followed Quentin could never be certain what happened or in what order it happened, who spoke first or the exact words-everything seemed to happen at once.
He remembered telling King Eskevar of the danger and of the battle taking place on the field. He remembered Eskevar rising off the slab unsteadily and falling in a crash to the floor. He remembered a feeling of inexpressible joy when the King placed a hand on his shoulder, gripped it tightly and said, “Well done, brave knight.”
They were then out of the crypt and moving toward Balder, Eskevar growing stronger with every stride. The sun shone high overhead, a fierce hard ball, filling Quentin with hope and determination as he strode somewhat painfully across the green expanse.
The two mounted Balder, Quentin sitting in back of the King, filling in the details of his story as they rode off together.
“There must be some who are loyal to me,” the King cried, his deep voice booming through the forest. “We shall find them!”
Quentin could not help thinking that unless they found ten thousand who had not bowed knee to Jaspin, their search was but in vain.
“First to Askelon,” said the King. “The common people will fight for their King in need. We will raise an army of farmers and merchants if we must!”
They dodged through the forest and struck the road to Askelon. Eskevar rode easily in the saddle; Quentin bounced along behind, holding on as best he could.
It seemed only moments before they were clattering through the streets of Askelon below the castle. The King struck for the center of town and raised himself in the saddle, sword held high in the common square.
“Countrymen! Your King has returned!” His voice seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle rock itself.
“Follow me!” he called. “Our kingdom is in peril! Bring sword and shield; bring rake and pike, spade and pitchfork. To arms! For Mensandor!”
When the people heard this they marveled and fell on their knees. The women cried and the men looked upon him in astonishment. A great cry went up, “The King has returned! The Dragon King lives!”
Men ran through the streets, bidding all to join the call to arms. A smith came running up leading a white horse, already saddled and prancing in eager anticipation. Eskevar leaped onto the horse and waved his rude army on.
They had scarcely left the city and taken up the road leading down to the plain before they met a large number of men dressed in dark green tunics and carrying pikes and longbows, with quivers full of new arrows slung about their shoulders.
Eskevar, with Quentin right behind him, stopped in the road as the men approached. Upon seeing the King, the leader of these men kneeled, crying out in a loud voice, “Your faithful servant, Sire. My men are at your command.”
The man and his manner seemed familiar to Quentin. Where had he seen them before? Then he remembered one cold night in Pelgrin when the forest had come alive with bush-men. When the man rose again to his feet Quentin recognized the tough, weathered face of Voss, but now the number of his brood had swelled to several hundred.
“We heard there was fighting yonder,” said Voss, approaching his beloved King. “We bethought ourselves to go and strike a blow for King and kingdom. We did not expect to be led into battle by the Drag
on King himself.”
“Your loyalty shall be rewarded, for today you shall see your King take sword against his enemies. Follow me!” The King wheeled his charger into the road and led his people into battle.
With every step their numbers grew. Twice Quentin looked around and was amazed at what he saw: a surging sea of rough wooden pikes and pitchforks bristled in the sun; rakes, hoes and other implements turned for the present into weapons for Mensandor’s Dragon King.
A song soared up from bold and happy hearts and winged its way into the bright heavens:
See the armies so arrayed,
Line on Line, ten thousand strong.
See the Dragon King’s sharp blade,
Rising to a song!
See his enemies laid low!
Hear our voices sing:
Let glory crown the victor’s brow,
In the Hall of the Dragon King!
FIFTY
JASPIN met Nimrood’s eyes with a look impossible to interpret: a mingling of relief and disappointment, of anguish and fleeting hope. “I… I don’t… understand… I…” Jaspin stammered.
Nimrood’s eyes sparked lightning and his voice cracked thunder. “The prize is gone! My prize has vanished!”
He cast a hateful glance out across the plain where King Selric’s army waited. “Black is the day of your doom! Your bodies shall be food for the carrion birds and your bones scattered to the ends of the earth! You will not escape Nimrood’s wrath now!”
Then seizing his marble rod he held it aloft and wailed a long incantation into the air. The black stallion beneath him shook its mane and pawed the earth, whinnying its impatience. Nimrood paid no heed; he raised himself in the saddle and repeated the incantation. “Ratra Nictu deasori Maranna Rexis!”
A cool breeze stirred the silk of Jaspin’s pavilion. The red and gold banners on their stanchions fluttered and the pennons waved, as a small dark cloud appeared in the sky. Nimrood continued his incantation, eyes closed, hissing out the fearful words.
The wind rose and the banners swung and the pennons on the lances of the knights snapped smartly. The roiling cloud mushroomed, spreading into a churning, seething storm. The ropes of Jaspin’s silk pavilion sang in the whistling wind.
The Legion of the Dead came riding on the wings of the storm.
Six of them there were-riding two abreast on snorting chargers. They rode from the south, galloping out of the forest. A murmur went up from the assembled armies, and as they drew nearer, those who stood in line with their approach fell back. Jaspin watched them come closer and closer. Six knights in sable armor-the color of darkest night-long black plumes floating from the crests of their helms. They looked neither right nor left, but galloped at a measured pace to halt directly before the pavilion. Their visors concealed any recognizable feature; no glint of eye sparked from the dark slits.
The earth plunged into an eerie twilight as the clouds boiled up and blotted out the sun. All grew deathly still. No one spoke, no one shouted; ten thousand men stood as one. Silent. The only sounds were the howl of the rising wind, the snap of the whipping flags, and the impatient blowing of the horses.
At a gesture from Nimrood the foremost of the knights of Nimrood’s fell Legion urged his mount forward to stand directly in front of Jaspin. The chink of the horse’s iron-shod hooves rang in Jaspin’s ears like the clang of a funeral knell. The pale usurper winced and shrank away from the black knight’s address.
“The day is ours!” shouted the necromancer boldly, so all gathered on the plain could hear. Then, turning to Jaspin he said, “Look upon the face of death, and despair!”
Jaspin watched in horror-his heart trembled within his breast, his blood ran to ice in his veins-as the appalling specter placed a black gauntlet to its visor and slowly raised it. Jaspin closed his eyes and looked away.
“See my handiwork!” cried the wizard.
Jaspin turned again to meet the apparition’s gray, bloodless face. And as he cowered before it, the knight’s ashen lids slowly opened to regard Jaspin with a chilling stare. Jaspin gripped the carved arms of his throne and uttered a low cry: the knight had no eyes!
“Away!” sobbed Jaspin.
Durwin turned his face into the streaming wind. His knowing eyes watched the great black clouds rolling over the plains of Askelon and regarded the sky growing murky as the unnatural, gloomy twilight descended upon the battlefield.
“Nimrood has arrived. He is here, and his Legion with him,” said the hermit. “We must ready ourselves for the final assault.”
“I am ready,” said Ronsard. His strong tone held no trace of fear. “I have faced death many times: he is too old an adversary for me to quail in his sight now.”
“Well said, Ronsard,” replied Theido. “I, too, am ready. Come what may, I see glory waiting for us all out there.” He nodded with eyes squinted toward the plain. “I mean to earn my share.”
“Aye,” agreed King Selric, “and a place in men’s hearts wherever deeds of valor are storied round the fire.”
Alinea, who had been long silent, now lifted her eyes to the horizon and looked her last upon the shimmering shape of Askelon’s far walls, misty in the distance. Trenn, his mouth set in a defiant frown, stood resolutely beside her.
“I am a woman,” said the Queen softly, “and no soldier. But for the love of my King I will gladly take my place beside my gallant friends, and gladly pledge my life to theirs.”
Trenn said nothing, but his thick neck bulged as he tightened his grip on his sword and touched its hilt to his heart.
Toli, who had returned from the forest after searching fruitless hours for his missing master, grasped a longbow and notched an arrow onto the taut gut. Beneath his dark aspect a smoldering fire kindled against those who had cut his master down.
Into the stillness that had settled over the plain the comrades-at-arms heard the growl of distant thunder marching through the heavens toward them. King Selric took his place at the head of his soldiers and sprang up onto a rock to address them, raising his hands and voice into the air.
“Men of Drin, my warriors! Hear me! You have made me proud to be your king, and though our time grows short, I would ask no greater boon than to lead you into battle one last time.”
“The enemy is great, but though he break our bodies he will never vanquish the proud spirit that strengthens us to our end. Fight well, my friends. Look not behind, but look ahead. Glory and honor will you earn this day. Be worthy of it. Be strong. Be not afraid.”
The soldiers, still as statues, now raised sword and spear, and with a mighty shout a thousand voices rang out, “For glory! For honor! For our King!”
Then, taking their swords, they began to beat upon their shields and sing a battle song, chanting to the rhythmic cadence. With Selric in the lead, they ranged themselves into the shape of a spearhead and marched out upon the plain, there to await the foe.
Theido and Ronsard took their knights and drew up beside their fearless comrades, flanking either side of the formation. The warhorses tossed their heads and snorted as the wind gusted smoke from the burning woods across the battlefield.
Again they heard the sound of drums as the enemy came forth. Theido looked round to catch the eye of Durwin to bid his friend a last farewell, but saw that the hermit had vanished again.
Then, through the smoke rolling across the plain, the enemy emerged once more. This time they were led in close procession by the six black riders of Nimrood’s Legion of the Dead.
They stopped. The drums quickened their tempo. The six lowered their lances, and at the trumpet’s blast they spurred their chargers forward.
The Legion flew across the plain, their horses’ hooves striking sparks as they hurtled across the gap. Behind them came the knights of Jaspin’s forces, followed by the foot soldiers who now began to run with a mighty shout.
King Selric’s army, rattling sword upon shield, steeled themselves for the clash. Theido and Ronsard launched their coursers to meet
the charge.
There was an enormous crash. The earth trembled with the shock.
Dust billowed up to shroud the combatants from view. Horses screamed and the cold clang of steel rang out. When the dust parted Selric saw that Theido and Ronsard and their riders had succeeded in lancing through their opponents with but little hurt to their numbers; what is more, they had succeeded in unhorsing one of the Legion. His horse lay screaming in agony on the field, but he on foot came on.
Theido, ignoring the sable knights, turned his attack inward upon the more assailable enemy. Jaspin’s own knights, surprised at this strategy, nevertheless joined battle with the onrushing knights. Instantly, all were surrounded by the foot soldiers who thronged to the fight.
“Away!” cried King Selric, and the trumpeter sounded the call as the stalwart thousand rushed to join the combat.
Footmen struggled to pull down the armored knights-for as long as a knight held horse he proved well-nigh invincible.
The knights rained blows upon the ill-protected heads of the footmen and took on each other in turn. Unsaddled knights grouped their comrades behind them and advanced like living shields once more into the struggle.
Theido hacked his way into the thick of the strife, but his followers failed to keep pace and were cut off. He became stranded in an angry sea of enemy soldiers. Throwing his shield before him he bore down, his arm rising and falling upon the necks of his attackers. Then he felt a jolt and glanced down to see an enemy spear jutting from his mount’s side. The horse reared screaming and plunged down, hooves flashing out, destroying the face of its assailant. Theido slumped to the ground with his dying horse as eager hands thrust out to haul him from the saddle.
Ronsard saw his comrade fall and turned his charger into the thick of the fray. His sword sang through the air and the whistling blade became a flashing rampart before him. Enemies flung themselves down to the ground rather than face his terrible sting.
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