“Now,” said Durwin, “to light it.”
“Wait a moment,” pleaded Ronsard. “Tell us what is to happen here.”
“Did I not tell you? We have created a dragon for the amusement of the soldiers yonder. It will send them screaming into the night, I assure you. Light the pyres we have made here, and then hide yourselves well away. When the soldiers scatter, make for the boat. I will join you there.”
“But where are you going?” Theido asked.
Just then Trenn sounded the alarm. “Someone is coming!”
“The dragon must have a voice!” said Durwin as he turned to hurry off into the woods.
“Wait!” Ronsard rasped, his voice a strained whisper. “We have nothing to make a fire with.”
“What?” cried Durwin with a startled expression. “Oh, very well. I suppose there are still some things I may do.”With that he stooped and removed a twig from one of the miniature pyres. He held the twig before him and raised his other hand high over his head, mumbling the words of an ancient charm with his eyes closed. He brought his hand down swiftly, and a blue spark leaped from his finger to the twig. The twig fizzled into flame.
“So it is! Light them with this at once. No time to explain. Get to the ship and cast off as soon as the way is clear.”
“Hurry!” warned Trenn. “They are getting closer. They will see us.”
Theido held the flame and lit the first pyre. “Hide, all of you! Get ready. When I give the signal, run for the boat.”
He lit the other fires and hid himself beside the trail. Raucous laughter floated up from the beach. It was quite apparent that the soldiers had helped themselves to a firkin of wine and were beginning to feel its effects. A few others had joined the first and were making their way to the woods to relieve themselves.
Quentin looked at the pyres in their dishes of sand. Nothing was happening that he could see. A few wisps of smoke drifted upward, all but invisible in the darkness that had settled over the wood.
Then, as he watched, a great bubble of smoke rose from the central pyre, followed by a bubble from each of the others. The bubble flattened and spread, snaking out over the sand toward the beach.
“Look!” said Quentin to Toli, who crouched at his shoulder. “The dragon's breath!”
Bluish smoke now billowed from the pyres and poured onto the beach, creeping low along the ground like a mist spreading over the sand. The smoke boiled forth, lit by green fire from the burning pyre below. It writhed in curling tendrils as it stretched down along the slope of the beach reaching toward the water.
The first soldier, stumbling up the path, singing a rude ditty at the top of his lungs, stopped and peered drunkenly down at the path as the snaking smoke curled about his feet and licked at his legs. He stepped back, almost falling into the two coming up behind him. For a moment they all stood staring as the mysterious mist swirled about them, thickening, racing on.
Quentin felt it before he heard itâa low thrumming note that vibrated in his chest. He fancied the rock beside him quivered in response to the sound.
The note grew in volume, becoming louder and louder still. To it was added a shrill hiss, the sound of steam escaping from a fissure in the earth, or of a monstrous snake coiling to strike. Then all at once the woods shook with a roar. The bushes rustled as if in the wind, but there was no wind. Leaves fell from the trees.
A thrill of excitement raced along Quentin's ribs. He turned wide-eyed to Toli, who returned his gaze with a grin. “The dragon's roar!”
The three soldiers on the beach, at first puzzled and now alarmed, faltered and fell back. They turned as if to run but remained anchored to the spot where they stood. The singing around the fire by the shore had stopped. Several stood looking into the woods.
Again the roar. Louder this time. From somewhere back in the woods a great light flashedâa bolt of lightning out of a clear sky. In that brief flare Quentin saw the terrified faces of the men on the beach; the look of unspeakable horror that appeared magically upon each brow sent a tingle of fear through his stomach. What if there
was
a dragon?
The flash of light was followed by strange sounds: the weeping creak of trees snapping off at the trunk and the muffled crash as they fell to the earth.
“The gods save us!” came a cry of dismay from the shore. “The dragon is coming.”
The slithering smoke had reached the huddled knot of men on the beach. “The dragon's breath! We're doomed!”
Two who had been entering the woods ran screaming back to the campfire, leaving the other collapsed on his knees with his hands clamped over his ears and his eyes squeezed tight in terror. He sobbed mournfully and then pitched over, facedown in the sand.
“We'll all be killed!” someone screamed. The horses, tethered to the back of the wagon, broke free and whinnied wild-eyed with fright, lashing out with their hooves at anyone who came near. Men began rushing to and fro upon the sand, arming themselves.
Then, from the smoking pyres, a weird glow went up, bathing the scene in a lurid green cast. The roar sounded again, rattling the branches overhead and, Quentin was certain of it this time, shaking the rocks in the earth. He cast a timid glance over his shoulder and fancied that he saw the huge black shape of a nameless dread moving through the deep shadow of the woods. The rending of trees and the crush of the undergrowth increased. The stench of burning sulfur filled the air.
The pyres, casting an eerie hue over all, now suddenly erupted in a shower of sparks and tiny cinders, becoming fountains of sparkling flame.
The soldiers, scattered and confused, shrieked as one. The horses bolted and ran down the beach. In an instant of hesitation, the men dropped their weapons and melted away, some to flounder in the ocean, calling for the waves to cover them. Others streaked away along the strand to hide among the rocks. Within the space of three heartbeats, there was not a man to be seen upon the beach save the soldiers who had collapsed in the sand.
“Move out!” cried Theido. Quentin found that when the call came, his legs were already moving as fast as they would go down the beach to the water's edge.
He threw himself up the rickety wooden ramp and over the rail of the small ship. He floundered across the deck to the mooring rope, which he struggled to unloose from its post. He did not look up when he felt Toli's hands upon the rope, working feverishly with his own.
“Are all on board?” called Theido.
Ronsard, standing at the bottom of the ramp, his arms holding a load of swords and a shield or two, hollered back, “I cannot see Durwin. He must be coming . . .”
Quentin glanced back up the strand toward the woods. In the green glare of the smoking pyres, he imagined he saw the great shape of a black dragon lumbering into the clearing. Two great circles of eyes burned into the night. Once more the water-freezing roar thundered. And then, inexplicably, Durwin emerged from the smoke, dancing down the path to the boat.
F
rom his high parapet, Prince Jaspin watched the last-minute preparations for his coronation. Below, on the greens of Askelon, a hundred brightly colored pavilions had blossomed like early summer flowers. Lords and their ladies strolled the lawn while servants fluttered among them on errands of pending importance.
The air fairly billowed with the fragrance of a thousand bouquets and the savory aroma of meat roasting in the pits and sweet delicacies being prepared for the high feast. Everywhere he looked, color and festivity met his gaze, and even to Jaspin's jaded eye the sight dazzled and delighted.
He rubbed his pudgy hands and hugged himself in paroxysms of pleasure.
Jaspin had readily assumed the appearance of a king. Rings rattled on every finger; gold chains hung about his neck; his rotund form fleshed out a handsome brocaded jacket with wide, lacy sleeves; a flattened cap, embroidered with gold, perched upon his head; and his long brown hair had been curled for the occasion. On his feet he wore boots of gilded leather; his legs were stuffed into the finest stockings, which issued forth from his short velvet trousers, fastened at the knee with silver buttons. He, though he hated to admit it himself, had never looked so splendid.
His entrance into the city the day before had been no less grand and majestic. All his lords, bedecked in their finest armor, astride their best horses, rode with him in triumphant procession through the town. The streets were thick with throngs of onlookers who sent their cheers aloft as the occasion required. To an objective ear the cheers could have been more effusive and heartfelt; nevertheless, to Jaspin, caught up as he was in his own pomp and circumstance, the tidings seemed the greatest possible adulation. In fact, the perceived acclaim so overwhelmed Prince Jaspin that he unaccountably loosened the strings of his purse and began flinging ducats of gold and silver into the throngs. This, of course, produced a heightened approval from the populace, most of whom made up the lower echelons of the realm. Those who had no great love for Jaspin, the more sincere citizens, stayed away from the procession altogether.
A more objective eye would have noticed that his praise poured forth from the throats of what might be termed a scruffy rabble. But to Jaspin, they were lords and ladies, peers of nobility every one.
After the parade there had been mummery and feasting and drinking far into the night. Jaspin, quite unlike himself, had retired early so as not to spoil his happy day with the wrath of the grape.
And now he beamed down upon the scene of his glory like the sun itself, sending down a rare beneficence to all who passed beneath his scan.
A shadow slipped fleetingly over his eyes, and he looked up to see a great bird gliding overhead. He turned and went back to his apartment to finish readying himself for the ceremonies soon to commence, which would continue for several days. He heard a croak from outside on the parapet and turned to see the bird he had glimpsed moments before alighting on the balustrade. Before he could think or speak, the bird changed, grew larger, its shape shifting and transforming. In a blink the dread form of Nimrood stood in the doorway, blocking out the sunlight streaming in. A cold finger of fear touched Jaspin's heart.
“What do you want?” the prince gasped.
“Come, now. We both know what I want. Why pretend otherwise?” The sorcerer smiled his serpent's smile. “I want what was promised me.” His tone had become an insinuating hiss.
“What I promised? I promised you nothing more than I have already given. You wanted the kingâI gave him to you. That was our agreement.”
“And did you think I would be satisfied with that? How innocent you are.” Nimrood's black eyes flashed with fire. His wild hair waved as if in a wind. “No! You promised a piece of your realm to any who would help you gain the throne. I have given you the throne.
Given
it to you, do you hear?” The wizard paced and raved. “Now I demand payment!”
“And what payment would you have?” the prince asked cautiously. If pressed, he was prepared to rave as loudly as any mad magician, where it concerned his wealth.
“Half your realm.” Nimrood smiled grotesquely. “Half your realm, my princeling.”
“That you shall not have, by Azrael! You dare ask that? Be gone, you miserableâ”
The words suddenly clenched in his throat. Jaspin gazed in terror into Nimrood's narrowed eyes, which flashed red in their depths. “I could crush you like a bug, Prince. Do not play with me.
I
am your master.
“You wish to be king? Very well. You shall be kingâbut at my price.”
“And if I refuse?” Jaspin whined miserably.
“You cannot refuse.”
“Can I not?” The prince became sullen. “What can stop me? In two days hence I will wear the crown. I will be king regardless.”
“I wonder if your pretty regents would hand you the crown so readily if Eskevar suddenly appeared.”
“You said he was dead. You sent his ring . . .”
“As good as dead. He is close by; well hiddenâyou cannot find him. But he may be revived to claim his throne once more. Of that I assure you.”
“You would not,” sneered the prince. “It would undo all you have done; all your schemes would come to naught.”
“Ah, but the sight of two brothers locked in mortal combat would greatly cheer me. And I need not tell you who would win.” Nimrood's eyes shone in triumph as he drew himself up to full height. “So which shall it be? The crown, or Eskevar's return at a most inopportune moment?”
“You black serpent!” Jaspin threw his hands into the air. “All right! All right! You shall have what you ask. But what am I to have of your surety? How will I know that you will do as you say?”
“You have, Prince Jackal, the surety of what I will do if you cross me. Beyond that? Nothing. Nimrood does not condescend to any mortal.”
Jaspin's countenance reddened with rage, yet he dared not express his anger toward the necromancer. His fear formed the greater part of his discretion; he held his tongue.
“So it is agreed,” soothed Nimrood. “I will return in a fortnight to receive the necessary titles to my new lands. And I will bring you a token, a reminder of your pledge . . . and what may be your fate if you renege.”
Nimrood spun round, his cloak flying in tatters behind him. He hopped upon the casement step, leaped to the balustrade, and hurled himself off, to Jaspin's horrified stare. But in the instant of his falling, his form changed, so quickly it seemed he had not changed at all but had always been the huge black raven that lifted its wings to the sky.
Q
uentin had slept but little, and that had been restive. He had tossed and rolled in his sleep as in a fever. He heard voices call his name, and when he awoke and sat up, the voices vanished, leaving only the splash of the prow slicing the waves.
He soon despaired of getting any rest and went to sit beside Durwin at the helm. “Steering by the stars is not difficult when you learn the knack,” Durwin replied to Quentin's question. “Like everything else, it is all in knowing what to look for.”