The fearless knight plunged into the tumult surrounding Theido and in an instant three of the foe crumpled to the earth. As the enemy drew back, Ronsard reached down a hand and pulled Theido to his feet and up behind him on his horse. “Your hand is much appreciated, good friend,” said Theido.
“A knight without a mount is a sorry sight. I do not like to see my friends looking so forlorn,” Ronsard replied as they bounded away.
King Selric hewed a swath before him as he and his men advanced to where Ronsard’s dauntless forces labored valiantly, though sorely beset. Many brave knights had fallen as their bodies felt the fatal sting of a blade thrust into some crease in their protection. By the time Selric reached the place only one remained upon his steed, his reddened mace dripping with the gore of his luckless opponents. He saluted his king and his fallen brothers and turned once more to the havoc.
Little by little the superior numbers of Jaspin’s troops and Nimrood’s black Legion wore down the stout defenders. The cruel end approaching swiftly, King Selric signaled the remains of his tattered army to circle and form a wall of shields to stay the destroyer’s hand as long as possible.
Theido, having regained a horse, led his cohort wading through the tangle in an effort to join Selric, who stood within the circle of the shields next to Alinea. “Fight on!” he urged them forward. “Fight on!”
Suddenly, two of the dark Legion appeared side by side in his path. Theido dodged to the side to avoid them, but too late. A blade flicked out and caught him a raking blow on the arm. A deep gash opened up and his sword spun to the ground as Theido felt strength leave his hand.
He spurred his mount and jerked the reins back, causing the horse to rear; the well-schooled animal lashed out with its forelegs. But the sable knights ducked aside. A blade flashed; Theido threw himself upon the horse’s neck and heard the swish of the sword as it chopped the empty air where his head had been only an instant before.
Theido desperately searched the ground for a weapon, throwing his buckler over his head to protect him. A blow struck the small shield, nearly wrenching it from his grasp. Another hit home, rending the metal in two. Another blow and the buckler would be useless protection. Theido reeled in the saddle.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a curious sight. The sable knight to his left raised his sword above his head to deliver the killing stroke. But as the black hand began the downward arc, the arm suddenly went askew, careening off like a branch struck from a tree. An axe had severed it completely. Bloodlessly.
He heard a whoop and saw Trenn’s blustery face beaming back at him. The next thing he knew the axe had been thrust into his hand.
The black rider on his right, heedless of his comrade’s plight, came on with whistling mace. Once, twice the mace battered into Theido’s poor shield. The third time it struck; the mace bit through the metal and snagged the buckler away. Theido let it fly. In the moment of confusion while the fouled mace hung down with the weight of the crumpled buckler, Theido swung the axe up, and with a mighty heave flung it into the foul knight’s breastplate.
The war axe bit deep, cleaving the armor and neatly burying its head deep in the knight’s chest. No cry of pain came forth, no sign of weakening. Theido could not believe his eyes-an ordinary man would have dropped like a stone.
But the blow did have effect, for Theido was able to spring away as the black creature tugged at the axe sucking out of its chest.
Now Prince Jaspin’s army began to crush Selric’s dwindling numbers as they staunchly stood their ground. Again the courageous king rallied his men, but strength flagged and still the enemy came on.
“I fear it is the end,” said Selric when Ronsard and Theido, abandoning their horses, came to stand beside the valiant warlord.
“We have fought a good fight,” said Ronsard. “I am not shamed to die this way.”
“Nor I,” replied Theido. He gripped the hands of his friends as the foe opened a breach in the wall of shields. “To the death!” he shouted.
At that moment an uncanny sound reached the battered comrades’ ears: the sound of hearty voices lifted in song. Then someone cried out, “It is the Dragon King!”
The words struck their hearts like living sparks. Could it be true?
“I see him,” someone called. “The Dragon King comes with his army!”
All at once a shout went up. “The Dragon King lives! He has returned!” Then they heard the song streaming forth:
See the armies so arrayed,
Line on line, ten thousand strong.
See the Dragon King’s sharp blade,
Rising to a song!
The attackers faltered and cast worried looks from one to another. Before they could think or move there arose a whooshing sound, as of a mighty wind. Instantly the sky burst open. The gloom which hung like death over the field of combat fled as a brilliant ball of white light roared into the heavens.
Then he was there: King Eskevar, sitting astride a great white charger, armor glittering in the blinding light, sword held high above his head.
The sight was too much for Jaspin’s warriors. They cried out in terror and threw down their weapons. Some fell to the ground as if they had been struck down, others backed away stumbling over those behind them.
Jaspin’s commanders sought vainly to rally their cowering soldiers. Another streak tore through the air and another fireball exploded in the sky, transforming the scene to deepest crimson. This decided the wavering forces; the line broke and Jaspin’s army retreated. Thousands fled into the forest, shrieking as they ran.
In moments the plain was in turmoil. The nobles who had traded their loyalty to Jaspin for heavy favors held to their grim task, but the men-at-arms, who had nothing to gain by staying, bolted and ran.
Into this panic the Dragon King descended with his peasant army at his back. In the violent red glare of the fireball these simple peasants with their rakes and hoes were suddenly transformed into armed giants, every one a knight in the eyes of the stricken attackers.
A cry of terror rose from Jaspin’s forces as the Dragon King and his mysterious men-at-arms waded into battle.
Nimrood, watching the contest from a distance, shrieked, “Stop, you dogs! They are only peasants! The victory is ours!” He spurred his horse onto the field in an effort to halt the rout. “Turn! Victory is ours, I say! Turn back and fight!”
The wizard’s screams went unheeded. Pinched between stubborn defiance of Selric’s soldiers and the Dragon King’s fierce vengeance, Jaspin’s army abandoned the field and fled to the woods and the river beyond. Only the nobles and their knights, and Nimrood and his Legion, remained to settle the issue so surely won bare moments before.
The knights and nobles came together and formed a wedge to thunder down upon Selric, hoping to scatter his men before turning their full attention upon Eskevar and his peasants.
The wedge assembled and hurtled down the battlefield to crush the staunch defenders. A great whirring sound went up and suddenly the air prickled with arrows. Voss and his foresters had taken up a position parallel to the flying wedge, where they loosed a stunning volley of arrows from their longbows.
The arrows, thick as hail, rattled off the knight’s armor for the most part, though some by force or luck found a chink or a soft spot and did their work. The poor horses caught some of the missiles aimed for their riders, floundered, and dragged others down with them.
The wedge broke apart and melted away.
Nimrood saw this last attempt to turn the tide of battle falter and knew then that all was lost. He turned his horse and galloped away. He had not run far when a rider, darting out of the nearby wood, intercepted him.
“Halt! wicked one!” cried the cloaked rider.
“Ah, Durwin-failed wizard, failed priest. I should have recognized your childish tricks,” Nimrood hissed as the other’s horse flew up to bar his escape. “Out of my way or I will shrivel you like a piece of rotten fruit! You, I should have disposed of long ag
o. I should have destroyed you all when I had you in my keep.”
“Save your breath, Nimrood. There is nothing more you can do.”
“No? Watch me!” The necromancer pointed his finger and drew a circle around himself in the air. Instantly fire blazed up to form a wall around him. Durwin toppled to the ground as his frightened mount, eyes showing white with terror, bucked and bounded away.
“Ha, ha, ha!” cackled the sorcerer. “There is much this magician can do. Savor the death your meddling has won!”
Nimrood raised his black stone rod and uttered a quick incantation. From outside the shimmering curtain of flames Durwin saw the sorcerer’s rod begin to glow red as new-forged iron. Then cruel Nimrood lowered the rod and leveled it upon the hermit. “Say farewell to this world, hermit! You saved your friends, now let your friends save you-if any are left alive!” he spat bitterly.
Sparks like lightning bolts hissed from the rod, striking Durwin, who was instantly dashed to the ground. He fought back to his knees as the sorcerer laughed with glee. “That was just a foretaste. Now, for the…” His voice faltered as he lowered the rod a second time to deliver the fatal stroke. From out of nowhere an arrow sang through the air and pierced the foul lord’s arm. The rod tumbled from his hand.
Before Nimrood could turn, another arrow found its mark in his shoulder and he fell from his horse. In two heartbeats Toli was standing over Durwin, notching yet another arrow onto his bowstring.
He raised the bow and bent its long length.
“No! No!” the sorcerer screamed. “Don’t kill me! Ahh!”
But the Jher ignored the necromancer’s pleas. The arrow flashed through the wall of flames and sank into the wizard’s black heart.
The old sorcerer crumpled inward and became a black heap upon the field. He quivered and lay still.
“At last he is gone,” said Durwin, dragging himself to his feet. His mantle smoked where the firebolt had seared into his flesh. Toli offered his arm to the hermit, and together they turned to rejoin their comrades as the clash of battle, now diminishing rapidly, came quickly to an end.
They had not walked ten paces when they heard a great sizzling sound. They turned to where Nimrood lay and saw his huddled black form burst into crackling flame; thick black soot rolled into the air. Then, impossibly, in the sputtering flames, they made out the form of a great black bird rising in the smoke.
A moment later they watched as huge black wings slowly lifted away and flew into the wood. Drifting back to them came the rasping call of a raven.
FIFTY-ONE
AT THE demise of Nimrood an uncanny transformation took place. The Legion of the Dead, bearing down upon King Selric and his men with flashing swords and whistling maces, suddenly faltered in their swift course. Their black gauntleted hands went slack at the reins; they swung weakly in the saddle and plummeted to earth in a tempest of dust and horses’ flying hooves. The six black stallions galloped away across the plain, free at last. The terrible Legion lay still upon the earth.
King Selric was the first to approach the six armored bodies as they lay. He crept close, his reddened blade held at the ready. Kneeling down over the first of the fallen knights, he glanced at the wondering faces of his men, now gathered around him, and slowly raised the helmet’s visor.
The empty sockets of a skeleton’s skull stared back at him. Death’s Legion was no more.
For a long time the battlefield lay wrapped in silence; a deep and reverent hush had fallen upon the ground hallowed with the blood of brave men. Then, one by one, they raised their heads to a jingling sound and all beheld a sight that made their hearts soar with a happiness long denied: the Dragon King upon his great charger galloping into their midst, and Alinea his Queen running to meet him.
Eskevar threw off his helmet, Alinea threw aside her shield and blade, and then he caught her up in his strong arms and lifted her off her feet and onto his horse in a long embrace.
The plain reverberated in tremendous, tumultuous, joyous acclaim. Tears of happiness streamed down besmudged faces. The Dragon King and his beautiful Queen were at last reunited. The realm of Mensandor was secure.
To Quentin, who had followed in the King’s wake, the scene seemed to take on the quality of one of his dreams. There was the King and Queen riding into the cheering throng of their most loyal subjects. She, sitting before him on his saddle, appeared more radiant and beautiful than any woman he had ever seen. And though her auburn tresses tumbled awry and her features were grimy with soot and tears, he thought she looked the more lovely for it all. And the King, armor shining in the golden light of a glorious afternoon sun suddenly burning through the gloom, held his great sword high overhead and proclaimed the victory in a clear, triumphant voice.
Then Quentin was in the arms of his friends. Toli was pulling him from his horse and crushing him in a fierce hug. Theido, one arm newly bandaged, was nevertheless pounding him on the back with the other, while Durwin gripped his face with both big hands and fairly danced for joy. Ronsard, Trenn, and King Selric shook his hands and laughed until tears ran from their eyes and their sides ached.
Quentin, too overcome to speak-his voice seemed to have dried up-just beamed at them all, peering through bleary eyes that sparkled with happy tears. Never had he felt so wonderful, so complete.
The King raised his voice to speak; the glad companions turned to hear him. His voice echoed over the plain saying, “Today will be a day of mourning for our fallen comrades. Tonight their funeral pyres will light their brave souls’ homeward way. The armies of Heoth have this day claimed many fine soldiers-we will honor them as is befitting men of high valor.”
“But tomorrow,” the Dragon King continued. All eyes were upon him in rapt wonder; many could still not believe that he had indeed returned. “Tomorrow will be a day of celebration throughout the realm of Mensandor! The victory has been won!”
At this the Plain of Askelon leaped to a shout, and songs of victory poured forth from all assembled there. Far into the night the songs continued, muted only during the lighting of the funeral pyres of the fallen countrymen.
When at last the pyres had dwindled to glowing embers, Quentin and the others started back to Askelon. Quentin watched as over the darkened field the funeral fires twinkled and winked out one by one as if they were stars extinguishing themselves forever.
The next day was a day Quentin treasured forever. He awakened to fine bright sunlight streaming in through an open window on a breeze perfumed by the fresh scent of wildflowers. He rubbed his eyes and remembered he had spent the night in Askelon Castle.
Jumping up he found that his clothes had been removed and in their place were the rich garments of a young prince: a tunic of white samite with silver buttons and royal blue trousers, and a richly embroidered cloak woven with threads of gold so that it sparkled in the sunlight as he turned it over in his hands. There was a golden brooch in the shape of a stag’s head and a golden chain to fasten the cloak. He had never seen clothes this wonderful. And shoes!-fine leather boots that fit him perfectly.
A servant brought rose-scented water and waited on him while he washed. Quentin’s hands trembled as he dressed himself and dashed out of his apartment fastening his cloak with the golden brooch as he ran, quite forgetting the aching stiffness in his leg. Theido and Durwin, both looking more noble than he had ever seen them, were just emerging from their chambers, directly across from his own.
“Ho there, young sir!” cried Theido with a grin. “Who is this bold knight I see before me? Do you know him, Durwin?”
“Unless my eyes deceive me,” said Durwin, “this must be the King’s champion off on some new adventure!”
“It is wonderful! All this-” Words failed him.
“Yes, yes. Wonderful indeed,” laughed Durwin. “But you have seen nothing at all until you have seen the hall of the Dragon King in high celebration!”
“Let us go there now!” cried Quentin. “I do want to see it!”
“Not
so fast,” said Theido. “Breakfast first-though I would hold back somewhat, for there are sure to be delicacies abounding throughout the day. We will join the others first.”
“Then can we go?” asked Quentin anxiously.
“In due time,” laughed Durwin. “You are impetuosity itself. I should have known when I saw you riding off into the wood after good Theido here that you would bring back the King. I should have seen it!”
“You must allow the King’s stewards to prepare the hall properly. It will not be ready just yet. A celebration like this… well, you will not be disappointed,” Theido explained. “But come. We will breakfast lightly and then take our places at court. For today the Dragon King dispenses justice for the treasons raised against him.”
At breakfast the three joined Toli, Ronsard, and Trenn, all bedecked in appropriate finery. Toli looked the part of a royal squire, and insisted upon serving Quentin by his own hand. He would have attended Quentin in his chamber had he not been prevented by servants of his own-Toli, too, was a most honored guest.
Quentin blushed, faintly embarrassed by Toli’s enthusiastic ministrations; for, although the Jher did not say a word, Quentin could see the light of a glowing pride kindled in Toli’s wide, dark eyes. To Toli, Quentin appeared at last to have taken his rightful place as a prince of the realm.
In the massive chamber of court, King Eskevar sat upon his high throne looking grave and righteous as he heard the evidence of the misdeeds practiced against him and his people during his long absence.
Lord Larcott and Lord Weldon were released from prison and restored to full favor with their monarch. In their places went Sir Grenett and Sir Bran, until they should have a change of heart and be willing to swear allegiance and fidelity anew to their Monarch.
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