Quentin slipped, losing his footing in the muck. He caught himself and grimly dug in, pulling himself up by handfuls of weeds.

Then at last they were out of the gorge and standing on a broad, level space rimmed in by trees. Behind them the gorge, with its stinking mist; before them, a densely wooded hill.

Without a word Toli began the long climb of the hill. Quentin fell in mutely behind him. It was no use to ask where they were going, or why. Toli would have his reasons; and anyway, Quentin had nothing better to suggest.

They had walked freely for several hours, the dark trees closing out the deeper darkness beyond, when Quentin saw something that startled him, though he did not know why.

He said nothing about it, but walked on, his eyes fastened on the spot far up ahead on the hill above where he had seen this thing. Presently, he saw it again. Just a wink.

He bobbed his head and saw it again-a thin glowing in the air far up ahead. He bobbed his head and it blinked. It flickered and danced and seemed to move away even as he approached.

The path mounted steadily upward and soon Quentin was certain he was not seeing a ghost. “See there,” he pointed through the crowding branches. “Up ahead. Something glowing.”

In ten more steps he knew what it was: a fire. Someone had built a campfire.

They approached the campfire cautiously. Toli was all for skirting the area entirely, but Quentin felt differently; he wanted to investigate. So they crept in close, moving slowly with infinite care, making not the slightest sound.

After an hour’s aching crawl they were right next to the cozy little camp, just beyond the small circle of light. They watched and waited. There was no one anywhere to be seen. Whoever had started the fire was not around.

“The soldiers?”

Toli shook his head. “Not here. The fire is too small for all of them.”

They heard the warning tread too late.

From behind them on the path came a rustle and a heavy footfall. Then suddenly a huge shape was upon them, forcing them forward. Toli dived to one side, but Quentin was caught and thrown forward into the camp. The monster roared, as if in pain, and Quentin went down as numerous blows rained down upon him.

He twisted under the blows, his head close to the fire. He saw a flash streak by him-a face. And then a voice said, “Stay where you are!”

The command was stern and evenly spoken. There was a trace of fright, but that vanished quickly. Quentin slowly raised his eyes to meet the bulky form of a large man towering over him, with what appeared to be a club raised in his hand.

Quentin was struck by something which seemed somehow familiar about this imposing figure who stood over and threatened to dash out his brains with the club.

He peered up again and sought the face which wavered uncertainly in the light of the dancing flames.

Impossible! he thought. It cannot be! But be reflected in the same instant that encountering a ghost on this in this inhuman place was far from impossible; it was to be expected. Following hard upon that observation, so as to be almost one and the same thought, Quentin remembered that shades did not carry clubs, or strike their victims, as far as he knew.

But the face, there was something very familiar about that face. He had seen it somewhere before. In another place long ago.

Then it came to him. He struggled with the memory, thrust it from him; he fought to disbelieve it. But the recognition remained, though Quentin was far from certain.

“Ronsard?” he said softly, his voice quaking.

He heard nothing for a heartbeat, but the crackle of the fire.

The man dropped to his knees beside him, bent his face toward Quentin’s. He reached out a shaking hand.

“Ronsard, is that you?”

THIRTY-EIGHT

“I AM Ronsard,” replied the man kneeling by the fire. “Who is it that knows my name in this forsaken place?” He spoke gently. But Quentin could see now, as he bent closer to the fire, the same angular features, the same jut of the jaw that told of strength and purpose. Yet, the knight seemed tired and worn. Heavy lines of fatigue were drawn at the corners of his mouth and etched around his eyes.

“Do you not know me?” answered Quentin. “I am Quentin, the acolyte. You gave me the message for the Queen…”

The knight’s face was suddenly transformed by a vigorous grin which banished the care and worry and sparked a light within his eyes.

“Can it be? Quentin?… yes, I remember… but how?” The questions came fast as the great knight, struck almost speechless, sought to make sense out of this apparent miracle.

“Come out, Toli,” Quentin called. He knew his friend was lurking close at hand, out of sight, ready to spring forth in an instant.

The thickets parted and Toli slipped in to stand by Quentin. “All is well. This is Ronsard-the knight I told you about.”

“The message bearer,” answered Toli in his own tongue. “Yes, and a great warrior.” Toli bowed deeply as Quentin had instructed him for occasions such as these. But the formality of the greeting in the rough setting made Ronsard smile and Quentin laugh. “Welcome, friend of the forest,” said Ronsard. “I have never met one of your race. Truth to tell, I had not, heard they were so well mannered.”

“We are both at your service,” laughed Quentin. He felt waves of relief running over him.

“And I at yours,” said Ronsard. “So, good friends, we have much to talk about, much to discuss. First, how did you get here? Theido told me that you had been left at Dekra, gravely ill. They were worried you would not recover at all.”

Quentin then launched into an account of all they had done since Dekra, and before that, right up to the time when he had left the temple. He thought even as he spoke that it all seemed slightly incredible, like it had happened to someone else entirely, and that he, Quentin, had remained at the temple. Thinking about the temple, and speaking about it again, made him a little wistful. Still, he knew in his heart nothing remained for him there.

Ronsard listened to all patiently, and yet eagerly, mulling it over in his head with a look of rapt attention. “You are a special one,” said Ronsard when all was told. “You would make a fine knight.”

Quentin blushed at this high praise. “I am only glad to see you alive and whole.”

“Alive I am. Whole I shall be-and soon. I feel stronger every day. Were it not for shipwrecks and kidnapping I should be as hale as ever I was.” Ronsard went on to tell how he had been snatched from the temple by Pyggin and his crew of scalawags right out of Biorkis’ healing hands. “I had been there some time and was just beginning to mend when they took me. The temple guards were no match for swordsmen; they scarce put up a fight, and I could not defend myself. I was thrust into a wagon and near jostled to death from Naramoor to Bestou where their ship waited.”

“How they managed to find Theido and Durwin and the others was an odd piece of luck-though I was grateful for the company.” He explained about the storm and the shipwreck and his lonely vigil on the island.

“And tonight I meet once more my friend from the temple,” Ronsard laughed. “To tell you the truth I thought I would never see you again-I was certain my message had miscarried. But it appears the gods have bound our fates together.”

Toli, listening to their speech, pieced together as best he could a vague idea of what they said. But at last he grew tired and, yawning, put his head down and curled up close to the fire and went to sleep.

“Yes, I am for sleep myself,” said Ronsard. “I was just collecting firewood to last through the night when I bumped into you on the trail. I did not see or hear you until I nearly fell over you-scattered all my firewood.”