“It is easier to crush a stone than a stream!” answered Sir Drake. “Or cut down a sapling instead of a shadow.”
“They do not stand and fight,” complained Sir Grenett.
“They vanish before the charge and appear in our midst. They have our bumbling, ill-trained foot soldiers attacking one another.”
“Do something! Soon Nimrood will arrive, and I had hoped to win this campaign on my own.”
“It is too late,” whispered Ontescue from behind him. “The wizard is already here.” Jaspin turned to see the black shape of Nimrood ride around the far side of his pavilion. The necromancer sat astride a black horse that looked half wild and pawed the ground as it snorted. Nimrood wore a black crowned helm with wings sweeping back from each side and a long black cloak edged with silver. In his hand he carried a rod of ebony marble inlaid with silver tracery in strange, convoluted patterns.
“Nimrood!” said Jaspin. His breath rattled in his throat. “We were waiting for you.”
“Were you indeed? I see dead stacked upon the field like kindling— they died of boredom, no doubt.”
“The fiends attacked us without warning. We had to retaliate. Th-there was no choice,” Jaspin stuttered.
“From the look of it, I would say they displayed the most remarkable luck,” the sorcerer sneered. “A thousand attacking ten thousand and holding them at bay. Ha!” Nimrood turned stiffly in his high-backed saddle and spat out orders to the knights and nobles gathered before the pavilion.
“Go back to your men at once. Nurse their courage; revive their spirit. And wait. When I return, I will bring my Legion to show you how to fight. I go now to bring my commander.”
“He is here?” Jaspin gasped and sank back into his throne, limp and trembling.
“Close by,” hissed Nimrood. “I will return within the hour. Meanwhile, do nothing. This battle will be over ere long. It should have been finished long ago. But never mind. You will all see a spectacle you will never forget.”
With that the wizard spurred his jittery steed forward and galloped off across the plain and into the woods beyond.
“What is this Legion that the mad magician speaks of, Sire?” asked Sir Bran. “Why should we wait? We can finish them now, ourselves. The victory is ours!”
Jaspin waved the suggestion aside with a damp hand. His jaw hung slack, and his eyes remained focused on some far-distant view. When he came back to his senses, he looked around feebly and said, “You will see soon enough. You will all see soon enough.”
“We can finish them this time. I know it,” insisted Bran.
“No!” shouted Jaspin, leaping to his feet. Spittle drooled from his lips; he looked like an enraged bull. “It is too late! Too late! We will wait!” He waved them away and hunched back into his throne. He passed a kerchief over his face and gestured for Ontescue to draw the curtain of his pavilion for privacy. He would wait alone.
“Oh!” he cried out in utter anguish. Sobs racked his body. “What have I done? What have I done?”
48
From somewhere far away, Quentin heard the sharp tinkling of bells, high-pitched and floating overhead, as if the sound carried on the wind. And another sound—a low murmur, like laughter.
Light danced above him; he could trace its movement through his eyelids. He felt warm and dreamy and realized that something was tickling his cheek and the hollow of his neck.
He opened his eyes.
For the briefest instant he thought he must be back at Dekra. The feeling passed even as it formed. Above him a green canopy caught the sun and dashed its golden light into a thousand shifting patterns. The bells he had heard were tiny twittering birds flittering from branch to branch in the great spreading oak upon whose roots he lay. He absently placed his hand to his cheek and brought it away wet. Then he turned and saw Balder lower his nose to nudge him once more.
“All right, old boy, I am awake,” Quentin murmured.
He pushed himself up slowly on his elbows. In a few seconds the dizziness subsided, to be replaced by a dull, throbbing ache that spread throughout his body but seemed localized to his left leg. He felt the leg, suddenly remembering how he came to be lying on the ground, gazing up at the leafy roof above.
The wound had stopped bleeding and the blood had dried. Quentin surmised that he had been unconscious for some time. He reached out a hand and grabbed the strap of Balder’s harness and hoisted himself to his feet. With a little effort he found he could walk, though stiffly at first and with some pain.
He scanned the surroundings. Though utterly strange to him, he felt the place was familiar somehow. Yet he knew he had never seen it before. He was, as near as he could make out, at one side of a gigantic earthen ring. His eyes followed the smooth grassy embankment around its circumference until he lost sight of it behind a stand of ancient oaks that occupied the center of the ring.
All around the inside of the circle stood white carven stones, thick slabs as tall as Quentin, now pockmarked with age and flecked with green and gray lichen.
The standing stones threw shadows upon the lawn at odd angles, as some of the stones were tilted and leaning precariously.
His gaze swept inward, and only then did he notice the mysterious mounds standing like so many gigantic, grass-covered beehives. All was peaceful; all quiet. But Quentin felt a thrill of something like fear race up the back of his neck and set his scalp tingling.
He had been here before: in his dream.
He had seen it all in his dream; and not once, but many times. It appeared very different, to be sure; the reality formed the opposite side of the coin. But it was the same coin—of that Quentin was certain. The inner feeling of remembrance told him as much.
But where was he? And what were the odd-shaped earthen beehives?
All sense of urgency—still nagging at the back of his mind— diminished in light of the singular feeling that washed over him like a cold stream. Quentin stood gazing around him. “I am supposed to be here,” he thought aloud.
Leaving Balder to nibble the grass at the base of the oak, Quentin hobbled toward the center of the ring, descending down upon the bowl. It was ancient; he could see that. The cracked faces of the standing stones were worn, the inscriptions nearly obliterated by time and the elements.
Whoever made it, Quentin was sure, had lived long ago. Back in the age of the mysterious mound builders, perhaps. Remnants of the mound builders’ work still existed, tucked away in far corners of the land. Spirals, hillocks, rings—strange shapes all.
He heard a gurgling sound and the splash of water trickling over stone. He parted a leafy bower and stepped into a shaded spot where a small spring bubbled, pouring up its water into a clear, gemlike pool. Quentin knelt and dipped his cupped hand into the icy liquid. He drank and noticed the white stones placed around the perimeter of the pool, and just above the pool where the spring delivered its water, the shrine to the god of the spring. A carved stone image of the god the peasants called Pol stood in the shrine. Once he would have poured a libation to the god, but Quentin merely nodded to the idol’s perpetual stare and continued again on his way.
He made for the nearest mound and examined it carefully. Grass-covered, it stood twice his height, perfectly smooth and symmetrical on all sides.
Some of the mounds, he could see now, were larger than others. And some had a slightly flattened or sunken appearance at the dome, as if they had collapsed within—the way graves sometimes do.
Graves. He held the word on his tongue and turned it over as if hearing it for the first time. Then, as sunlight slowly chased the night, he knew where he was. Quentin had stumbled into the Ring of the Kings, or Kings’ Ring, as it was sometimes called in stories and songs. It was the ancient burial place of Mensandor’s first kings: the empire builders were buried here, their barrows dug within the ring. It was a most sacred place.
Quentin paused and then turned to make his way back painfully to Balder and then away. But something held him to the spot. He shrugged off his
unaccountable reluctance and moved on, turning back again not four paces from where he had stopped before.
A thought came to him. If he was to make it back to camp alive, he would need a weapon of some sort, at least a shield. The kings were customarily buried with their armor and weapons—outfitted for their trials in the underworld.
Surely, he thought, there would be no harm in obtaining a sword or shield from one of the barrows. Though taboo and likely to upset the spirits of the dead—neither a problem Quentin held in any great regard—he decided to try to find a weapon.
The first barrow he examined had no entrance that he could find, nor did the second or third. Whatever means of entering the vaults had been contrived, they had long ago grown over or had been carefully erased.
He was about to give up and return to Balder when he saw a large barrow situated in the midst of the others. Very well, he would try just one more, he thought. He limped toward it, moving between the eerie mounds like a giant passing between green-domed mountains.
The barrow that had caught his attention was different from the others he had examined—rounder, a gentler arc all around, as if the tip of a large sphere bulged from below ground. He walked around it and neatly tripped over a small bush growing at the base of the shaded side of the hill.
He fell, plunging headlong into the turf and banging his injured left leg on the ground. Quentin winced in pain as he slammed down and felt something hard give way beneath him. There was an odd, muffled crack, like the tearing of a root, and Quentin tumbled into the yawning blackness that had suddenly opened up beneath him.
He let out a surprised yell as he landed on something hard. He coughed and sputtered in the dirt that caved in around him and wiped the dust from his eyes as small pebbles rattled away below him.
When the dust had cleared and he had taken stock of himself, Quentin saw that he had not fallen very far—less than three paces. The sunlight slanted down into the crevice he had opened up and illuminated a small patch of the floor on which he was standing. He saw one straight edge and then darkness: steps. He had stumbled into the entrance of the burial place that someone had been at great pains to conceal.
Steadying his quivering nerves, Quentin stepped cautiously down onto the step and then the next. The steps fell away sharply, and Quentin soon found himself in complete darkness, except for the patch of light through the hole where he had fallen. He thrust his hands out in front of him and continued.
The stairs stopped after only a few more steps, and Quentin, his eyes becoming used to the darkness now, perceived a stone door barring the entrance to a subterranean chamber. The door, black with age, was carved with the intricate designs and runes of the ancients. Yet from chips and scratches that showed white in the dim light along the left side of the narrow slab, he could see that someone had used tools to pry open the tomb’s door, and not so very long ago.
Quentin placed his palms on the cool, moist rock and pushed. Unexpectedly, the door moved with very little effort, grinding open on its unseen hinges.
He stepped into the tomb.
The interior of the tomb was cool and silent. In the feeble light of the open door, Quentin saw the glint of gold and silver vessels stacked along the walls. The dust of time lay thick upon the floor, dimming the colored mosaic tiles that proclaimed in quaint picture the exploits of the deceased monarch. Silver-tipped spears and bearskin shields—now moldering to dust—stood in ranks to his left. A saddle, with a horse’s bard and chamfron supported by crossed lances, stood on his right.
Whatever else lay in the ancient burial vault Quentin never discovered. For his eyes found the stone slab standing in the center of the chamber. And there, still and serene, as if in a peaceful slumber, lay King Eskevar, his form bathed in an eerie blue luminescence.
Though Quentin had never seen his king, he knew in his heart he had found him, for it could be no one else. The bearded chin jutted up defiantly; the smooth, high brow suggested wisdom; the deep-set eyes, closed in repose, spoke of character; and the straight, firm mouth, of royalty.
Quentin, in a daze of wondrous disbelief, slowly approached the stone bier as one walking in a dream. The figure before him, dressed in shining armor, his arms folded across his unmoving chest, appeared the picture of death itself. And yet . . .
Quentin, holding his breath, stepped closer, daring not to breathe for fear that the vision before him might prove to be insubstantial.
One step and then another and he would be there.
With a trembling foot he took a step. Shifting his weight, he raised his foot . . .
Something moved behind him. He felt the air rush by him, heard a metallic whisper, and caught the flash of two glowing points of yellow light arcing through the air as he instinctively turned to meet the blow, and then he was struck down.
49
The battlefield had grown as quiet as the dead men upon it. A hush crept over the plain, which still echoed with the ring of steel and the cries of warriors. The carrion birds soared above, searching for an opportunity to begin their gruesome feast; their cries pierced the silence that now covered Askelon Plain like a shroud.
In respite from battle, the wounded had been carried from the field and taken to the river, where Selric’s surgeons offered what aid and comfort could be given. Those still able to bear sword or pike were bandaged and returned to the ditch to await the next onslaught.
Durwin, arms bared and robes drawn up between his legs and tucked in his belt, hurried among the litters to aid with word or skill as many as he could. Wherever he went the pain was eased and the healing begun. Those who could not recover were comforted and their passage to the next world lit with hope.
As he bent over the unconscious form of a soldier lying on the grassy riverbank, Durwin felt a tug at his belt. He turned away from his patient to see a young man, sweaty and besmeared with blood, motioning him away.
“What is it, lad?” asked the hermit.
“A knight yonder would see you, sir,” replied the young physician.
“Then take me to him,” replied Durwin, and they both hurried off through the ranks of the wounded lying along the bank.
“Here is the holy hermit, sir. I have brought him as you bade me.” The boy bent close to the knight’s ear. Durwin, thinking that he had come too late, for so it appeared, was surprised to see the knight awaken and the clear blue eyes regard him knowingly.
“They tell me I will die,” said the knight. He was a young man, not yet beyond his twentieth year. “What do you say?”
Durwin bent to examine the wound, an ugly, jagged slash in his side where an axe had sliced through his hauberk and driven pieces of his mail deep into his flesh. He shook his head slowly.
“Yes, it is true. The wound is mortal, brave friend. How may I help?”
“It is as I feared,” said the knight. His voice was growing weaker. “I have watched you going among the wounded and have seen you comfort men in screaming agony and calm those who have no hope.”
“I do what I can,” said Durwin softly.
“Then tell me what I must know of death, for I am not a religious man. It is said that you can look into the world beyond, sir. Look for me and tell me what you see.”
Durwin, though he already knew what he would tell the young knight, bowed his head and closed his eyes as he placed one hand over the knight’s heart. After a moment he began to speak.
“I see two paths that may be taken—one into darkness and one into light. The dark path is an unhappy one. There is no peace to be found wherever it leads, and those who travel it never find rest or comfort for their soul’s pain. It is a lonely, bitter road.
“The other way, the road of light, leads to a magnificent city wherein all who come rejoice in the presence of a loving king who reigns forever without end. It is a realm of peace where hardship and death are conquered, and none who abide there know fear anymore.
“These two paths are open to you, but you must choose which one you will tr
ead.”
“The choice is easily made, good hermit. I would go to the great city and there pledge my service to the honorable king. If he has need of men such as I, that is where I would be. But I don’t know how to accomplish that, and fear I may yet go wrong.”
“Do not be afraid. Only believe and it will be so. Believe in the king, the king of all kings, God Most High. He will meet you on the path and lead you himself into his city.”
“Sir, I do want to believe. But your words are strange. They are unlike any words I have ever heard a priest speak. Are you a priest?”
“Yes, fair friend. I am a priest of the king I have told you about. He turns none aside who would come to him; it is a promise he makes to all men.”
“Then I go to him at once.” The knight’s voice was a whisper. “Thank you, good hermit. I shall remember this kindness and greet your king for you. Farewell.”
“Farewell, brave sir. We shall meet again.”
At these words the knight closed his eyes and breathed his last. Durwin stood over the young man’s body and marveled at his courage and the firmness of his faith. “The Most High has won a faithful servant this day,” he said to himself. “And none more valiant.”
When Durwin had done all he could for the wounded and dying, he returned to the ditch where Selric, Theido, and Ronsard stood in council.
“We have lost many good men,” said Ronsard. “We cannot withstand another attack if they choose to make an end of it.”
“Why do they wait?” Selric wondered aloud. “Perhaps they will not challenge us again.”
“No,” said Theido. “They will come again. They are waiting for—”
“Waiting for Nimrood to bring his foul brood,” said Durwin as he joined them. “They have not yet come. But they are close by.”
“Then Jaspin hoped to win the day for himself without Nimrood?”
“So it is! But now he will be forced to acknowledge Nimrood as his master before all who call him king.”
“It is no better than he deserves,” observed Ronsard. “I believe he will yet rue the day he ever laid eyes upon the sorcerer.”
The Dragon King Trilogy Page 33