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 the 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 the 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 knights' 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 woods intercepted him.
“Halt, wicked one!” cried the cloaked rider.
“Ah, Durwinâfailed 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 ago. 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 as 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 youâif any are left alive!” he spat bitterly.
Sparks like lightning bolts hissed from the rod, striking Durwin, who was instantly knocked 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, then 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 fire bolt 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 woods. Drifting back to them came the rasping call of a raven.
A
t 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, all raised their heads to a jingling sound and 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, joyful 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 were 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 hands and laughed until tears ran from their eyes and their sides ached.
Quentin, too overcome to speakâhis voice seemed to have dried upâjust 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 soldiersâwe 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 still could 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, all on 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 nobler 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 thisâ” Words failed him.
“Yes, yes. Wonderful indeed.” Durwin laughed. “But you have seen nothing at all until you have seen the Great Hall of the Dragon King in high celebration!”
“Let's go there now!” cried Quentin. “I do want to see it!”
“Not so fast,” said Theido. “Breakfast firstâthough 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.” Durwin laughed. “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!”
At breakfast the three joined Toli, Ronsard, and Trenn, all bedecked in the appropriate finery. Toli looked the part of the royal squire and insisted on serving Quentin by his own hand. He would have attended Quentin in his chamber had he not been prevented by servants of his ownâToli, 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 absence.
Lord Larcott and Lord Weldon were released from prison and restored to full favor with their monarch. In their places were 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.
Jaspin appeared next before the throne. So feeble with remorse had he become that he had to be dragged forth by guards and propped up on a stool to hear his sentence.
“For your part, Jaspin,” said Eskevar, not without compassion, “I will be lenient, though you will no doubt perceive your punishment as more harsh than you can bear. Be that as it may, I have decided.
“You shall be banished from this realm to wander the world and make a home wherever you may find men to receive you. You will never trouble Mensandor again.”
Jaspin wailed as if he had been struck with a hot poker. He cried to his brother for mercy. “Allow me to confine myself to my own castle. In time you shall forget this unpleasantness.”
But Eskevar was firm in his resolve. “You may take with you one companion: Ontescue.” He nodded, and the wily Ontescue was brought forth, muttering darkly.
“Ontescue,” the king pronounced, “you, who would be the king's companion, shall accompany your âmonarch' wherever he goes to guide him in exile as you sought to guide him on this throne.”
Ontescue blanched, but he bowed low and said nothing, grateful at least to have saved his head.
A whole host of nobles and knights, prisoners taken on the battlefield, were ushered in. They were each made to pledge their oaths of loyalty once more to the Dragon King, and each then promised a ransom for themselves and agreed to a levy on their lands. But they were released at once.