A slightly acrid odor could be detected over the dark mustiness of the gatehouse tunnel. It seemed to be coming from the courtyard beyond.

“Well, stay close. Here we go-” Ronsard darted out of the mouth of the runnel and into the light. Quentin, running a few steps behind him, saw the knight suddenly stop. Quentin stopped, too, wondering what had gone wrong. Had they at last been discovered? Ronsard turned, his face contorted as with agony unbearable.

“What?-” Quentin began. Then it hit him-an overpowering stench like a massive fist. He felt his gorge rising and began to choke. His knees buckled and he went down on his hands. As tears filled his eyes he heard Ronsard retching and Toli gasping for air.

When the waves of nausea passed, Quentin raised his head slowly to look around. The courtyard was decidedly unkempt. Weeds grew through cracks in the stone flagging, filth accumulated in every corner, stagnant water stood in troughs where flies buzzed in thick, dark clouds.

“Oh… no…” Quentin heard Ronsard moan and turned his head to where the knight stood gazing at some object. Quentin could not determine what it was. He crept closer.

“The foul fiend!” cursed Ronsard, turning away.

Quentin gazed down and saw the skeletal carcasses of two horses rotting in the sun. The horses were still tethered to iron rings set in the stone; they had starved to death where they stood. Birds had been at them and had torn away huge chunks from their flanks. This then was the source of the festering stench.

Quentin turned away and pulled Toli with him. The Jher said nothing, but his eyes had grown hard and dark as stone.

Inside the castle it was the same-deserted and reeking with neglect. Everywhere they turned some atrocity met the eye. “Stupid waste!” spat Ronsard as the three inched along. Quentin’s skin crawled; he felt dirty, as if he had been contaminated by a wasting disease. He knew himself to be in the presence of impudent, arrogant evil, and it made his blood run cold.

They continued on in silence until they reached a great stone archway at the further end of a long, crooked corridor.

“This is odd,” said Ronsard shaking his head in disbelief. “Where is everyone?”

“Nimrood cannot have many friends,” quipped Quentin. Ronsard regarded him with a knowing look.

“The dungeon must lie beyond.” He indicated a heavy iron-banded wooden door with an iron bolt. “Let us see.”

Ronsard tried the bolt and found that it slid easily enough, if not as quietly as he would have wished. But the door swung open readily and they saw a spiral of stone steps circling down into the blackness below. A torch stood ready in a holder just inside the door, with a candle flickering beside it. Ronsard seized the torch and lit it with the candle, leading the way down. Quentin followed and Toli crept along behind.

Quentin thought the stairs would never end, but presently they came to a landing which opened onto a vast chamber. Below them the chamber was filled with stores and barrels, heaps of armor, and unused swords and spears.

“He must be outfitting an army!” said Ronsard. “This is the basement. The dungeon is below.” They continued down the twisting stairs.

The steps ended at an arched entrance. Ronsard paused, handed Quentin the torch, and peered around the arch. A low, wide passage ran to the left and right, lined with cells, and ahead of them a shorter passageway ended in darkness.

Ronsard took back the torch and said, “We will have to search every cell. I will go to the left. You two go to the right.”

It didn’t take as long as it might have: every cell was empty. The three met back at the place where the corridors crossed. “There is only…” Ronsard stopped short. “Listen!”

Footsteps could be heard slapping along just around the corner of the arch. Then a voice called out, “Euric! Is that you? Bring your torch, man! Euric!”

For two heartbeats Quentin stood frozen to the spot, then threw himself against the wall. Ronsard placed a finger to his lips and winked. Then, just before the man turned the corner, Ronsard stepped into his path and, holding the torch high, swung his other fist into the man’s face. The man went down and out cold. He never knew what, or who, had hit him.

“Must be the jailer,” offered Quentin, pointing to the large truncheon which hung by a leather thong at his belt and next to it an iron ring with an assortment of keys.

“Yes, we are in luck,” said Ronsard, already lifting the man below the arms and dragging him into the nearest empty cell. “Now, come along. The way should be clear.”

They dashed quickly and quietly down the shorter corridor ahead and descended the stone steps.

The narrow iron door was heavily locked; the bolt had been thrown, and a great iron lock attached. The captives inside heard the fleeting steps in the passageway and then the scrape of a key in the lock and then another, and others, and suddenly the bolt was flung back and the door heaved open.

“Ronsard!” The Queen recognized him first, and ran to him. “You have found us at last!”

“I knew you would come,” said Durwin. Trenn and Theido stood staring-speechless.

Then Quentin thrust his way in, followed by Toli. He stood looking down upon his friends, his eyes filling up with tears.

“Quentin!” shouted Durwin. The hermit rushed toward him, his arms outstretched. The next thing Quentin knew he was embracing Durwin as he would have embraced his own father. The others gathered around, pounding him on the back. Alinea kissed his cheek.

Everyone talked at once as the questions came tumbling out: How? When? Where? They wanted to know. Quentin was oblivious to it all. He smeared away the tears that splashed down the side of his face and considered this to be the sweetest meeting he ever had.

It was a moment he would keep forever.

THIRTY-NINE

ESCAPE from Nimrood’s castle could not have been easier, or more quickly accomplished-to Quentin’s amazement. Up out of the dungeon and back through the castle corridors, across the stinking courtyard between the inner and outer curtain, into the gatehouse tunnel and over the drawbridge to freedom.

Quentin kept expecting Nimrood to appear at any moment, to trap and imprison them, or at least challenge their flight. But not a soul did they meet-though they did hear prodigious singing as they flitted past the corridor leading to the kitchens. “A revelry? Here?” questioned Ronsard.

“The snake is away,” said Durwin, and explained that Nimrood had gone to attend the Prince’s coronation.

“The Prince? Prince Jaspin-king? Then it is even worse than I expected,” said Ronsard.

“So it is!” said Durwin.

“Well, it cannot be helped now,” said Theido. “We will have to deal with that in its time. Now we must find and free the true King.”

“Yes,” replied Ronsard. “Time for a council of war.”

They huddled under the pylons at the end of the drawbridge and discussed how best to locate and free the King. Quentin did not care much for his assignment, which was to lead the others back along the trail to where the wood joined the ridge and sheltered the road beyond. He was to wait there and offer a signal should the soldiers return before Ronsard and Theido could meet them.

“Waiting!” complained Quentin darkly to Durwin as they trudged back to the hiding place. “We have come all this way only to wait while they rescue him. It isn’t fair.”

Although he had not thought about it before, he had naturally assumed that he would be there when the King was rescued. Only now when that prospect was denied did he feel cheated.

“I dare say it isn’t fair at all,” sympathized Alinea. “But the Queen is glad for the company of her protectors.”

“I am sorry,” blustered Quentin. “I did not mean…”