The footsteps were now just outside the dungeon entrance. The sharp grating of the bolt thrust aside and the creak of the opening door on its rusting hinges filled the chamber.

Once more two soldiers ducked in throwing their torches ahead of them. Then the guard with his long halberd glinting cold and bright in the glare of the torches.

Following the guard came a short, hunched figure who stood quietly behind the others off to one side. Behind him came a dark shape that thrust itself through the door and into the sphere of light cast by the torches. The prisoners saw the black hair with its shock of white streaks.

“Nimrood!” cried Durwin.

“None other.” The sorcerer smiled treacherously. “And now I see our little party is complete.” He gazed on them one by one and then drew himself up to full height and shouted, “You fools! Trifle with Nimrood the Necromancer! I shall blast you all to cinders!”

He swept down the steps, his black cloak fluttering through the damp air like a bat’s wings. He came to stand in front of Theido, who did not move a muscle, but stood his ground unperturbed.

“I will begin with you, my upstart knight, my ‘Hawk.’ Oh, yes!” he hissed at Theido’s recognition of the name. “You see, I have long had my eye on you. But you’ll not burn like these others. I have better plans for you. Much better. I’ve a special place for you, my knight.”

“I will die before I serve you,” replied Theido coolly.

“You will. Oh, yes. I dare say you will,” cackled the evil wizard. “But not before you’ve watched your friends die screaming.” Spittle flew from his foaming lips. He threw a fearsome scowl to the others, whirled and flew back up the steps.

Nimrood stood again in the torchlight, looking like a phantom out of the darkness around him. He hesitated as he turned to leave, and then turned back. “I would begin at once with you,” he smiled at the captives, again that treacherous grimace. “But that will have to wait,” he continued. “I have a coronation to attend-it might interest you to know. There will be time enough for our diversions when that is done.”

“What coronation?” asked Durwin.

“Oh, you pretend not to know. I will tell you-Prince Jaspin, of course. Midsummer’s Day. Very soon Askelon will have a new king! Ha, ha, ha! I leave at once. I shall relay to him your warmest regards. And you, Queen Alinea-you think I did not recognize you? The Prince has wondered after your disappearance. I will tell him what you have been up to-tell him about all of you, and my plans for you.”

Nimrood turned at once and vanished through the doorway followed by the stooped man and the soldiers. The prisoners could hear his insane laughter as he fled down the corridor. His voice echoed back to them like a thunder of doom.

“Sleep well, my friends! Pleasant dreams! Ha! Ha!” His laughter became a strangled choke. “Ha, ha, ha-a-a-a!”

THIRTY-SEVEN

THE SOUNDS of men working, laboring to unload the ship’s stores, had died down. Quentin pressed his ear against the side of the barrel and listened. He could hear nothing but the gentle slap of waves against the hull of the ship, as if far in the distance, but no doubt very close by. Occasionally he heard the squawk of a seabird soaring high above. All sounds reaching him from outside the heavy oaken barrel were muffled and indistinct.

He had filled the hours aboard the ship dozing and waiting, listening in the dark of his small prison and aching to stretch his legs, but daring not to move a muscle. At last, when every nerve and fiber cried out for relief, he had allowed himself to change position. Finding room enough, and having once braved the move with no dire result, he allowed more frequent repositionings, still remaining as quiet as he could.

Periodically, he had pushed the cap from the bunghole and let fresh air rush into the stuffy confines of his barrel. He pressed his face to the hole and peered out, but could see nothing of the ship’s activity. This was both good and bad, thought Quentin. For it permitted him to draw air more frequently without fear of anyone noticing the slight movement of the cap. But it also meant that he could have no hint of warning if he were discovered, and no view of the deck to see when they reached their destination.

So he relied upon his ears to tell him what was taking place around him. He had been sleeping when the barrel was heaved up and carried off the ship. The sensation of being lifted, without warning, and jostled awake while swinging through space so surprised him he had stifled a startled shout.

But then he had been bumped down upon the beach-there had been no resounding thump, as on the deck of the ship when he had been thrown down-so he guessed they had unloaded the cargo upon the sand.

He waited then for the sounds of unloading, and the noise of the men grunting and cursing their duty, to diminish until plucking up his courage to risk another peep through the bunghole.

This new view from his tiny window was more encouraging. His barrel seemed to be situated close by a wooden ramp, seen from below as it slanted down from the top of his peekhole. This, he guessed, formed the crude dock which teetered out into the bay used as a harbor by Nimrood’s men. Beyond the ramp he could see a length of shoreline where waves washed in gently, amidst the roar of breakers further out. A few standing rocks marked the beach, and Quentin could see from the long shadows reaching out in the bay from these stones that the sun was well down and sliding toward evening.

He could see no sailors or guards nor anything that would indicate another human presence nearby. Very well, he said to himself, wait for darkness.

Quentin had just closed up the bunghole and settled back into his curled position in the barrel when he heard a slight jingling sound-which grew steadily louder-and then the dull murmur of voices. Two men, he imagined, talking together. Then the snort of a horse and the grinding creak of a wheel upon the sand. A wagon, he thought, they’ve brought a wagon.

“Well, let’s do it then,” one voice said, muffled through the sides of the keg. Quentin removed the cap to hear them better.

“Not so fast!” said the other voice. “The others will be along in a little. They can help.”

“But it will be dark soon. I do not fancy driving this wagon back up there in the dark. It is bad enough in daylight.”

“Then we’ll stay the night here. What difference does it make? Don’t be so skittish.”

“Brave talk! You’ve not been here as long as I have; heard the things I’ve heard; seen the things I’ve seen. I tell you…”

“There you go again. Shut up, will you? I don’t need to hear your tales. By Zoar! You’re a weak one, you are.”

“I know things, I tell you. If I’m afeared of this place at night it’s because I’ve seen things…”

“You’ve seen nothing that can’t be seen anywhere else. Now, shut up! I don’t want to hear it.”

The other man fell to mumbling to himself after that angry exchange. Quentin could not make out the words, but he knew that he now had to think quickly. He’d been offered a new choice. Either to wait and be loaded upon the wagon with the rest of the supplies, or to try making an escape now before the others returned. He replaced the cap slowly and hung for a moment in indecision: wait or go.

Quentin decided to wait. A clean entrance into the castle unsuspected would be better than floundering around outside the enemy’s lair. But just as he reached this decision the choice was snatched from him.

“Hey!” cried one of the men at the wagon. “Something moved over there by one of the barrels.”

“There you go again! Be quiet! I’m trying to sleep,” the other snapped angrily.

“It moved, I tell you! One of the barrels moved!” the first protested.