“Ha, ha! You see how it is!” The sorcerer dashed a shriveled, blackened cinder, all that remained of the shining apple, to the floor.
Jaspin had been doing some rapid calculating. “That would be over ten thousand men-knights and footmen. It cannot be done. There is not enough time.”
“It will be done!”
“But who would command such a force? I do not believe I…”
“No, not you, my worm. I have a commander at the ready. He has only to join my immortal Legion.”
At the word a ghostly pallor tinged Jaspin’s slack features; his flesh became mealy. “Not the Legion of the Dead; there is no need for that.”
“Silence! We will do this my way this time, and there will be an end. If I were to leave it to you, you would bungle it again.” The wicked wizard fixed Jaspin with his slithering smile.
“Yes, my little puppet,” Nimrood chuckled menacingly. “This time there will be an end.”
FORTY-FIVE
BY NIGHTFALL the three warships had reached the ruddy coastline of Mensandor. The reddish color came from the rock cliffs rising abruptly from the strand on either side of the turgid Wilst. The smooth, red, sandstone bluffs glimmered scarlet in the dying light as the chattering calls of gulls and terns echoed among the cliffs.
They anchored for the night just off the large triangular crag guarding the mouth of the river. The crag, Carthwait, or “The Guardian,” stood sentinel-a soldier standing eternal watch, and providing refuge for countless seabirds. Around its base the dusky waters of the Wilst stained the green of the sea-called Gerfallon by the earliest inhabitants of the region.
The next day saw the ships slowly making their way upriver under the stares of the curious townspeople of Lindalia, who had come to see the spectacle of three warships pulling themselves along the cliffs by the straining muscles of the oarsmen.
By the end of the second day Selric’s navy had reached the fork Durwin had described. They found it to be as Theido had said: the commingling waters of the two mighty branches had carved out a hollow bowl, rimmed around by high palisades. Plunging over the brink of these steep banks in green profusion, vines and vegetation splashed down like leafy waterfalls to trail away in the current.
One by one the ships turned into the deeper waters, shipped oars, and were carried along in the flow. Silently, along the wide expanse of the Herwydd, the invaders descended toward the plains. A calm hung over all-almost visible-like the honeyed light filtering down upon them from above.
Gradually, league by winding league, the high banks receded back into the land from which they had sprung. The ships, keeping to the deep center channel of the Herwydd, passed in silence along far slopes crowded with trees. Occasionally, they slid by a cluster of rude huts where peasants peered fearfully out of darkened doorways while spotted mongrels barked their defiance from the shore.
To Quentin time seemed to pass as a vision as he stood on deck, detached, watching the world wend away, feeling nothing in particular. The dull, aching dread had settled into a vague anticipation. He was being propelled toward something. Something he knew, but could not name. He would catch glimpses of it in the way the light moved upon the water, or through the trees. Golden light and silver-blue shadow. Darkness. Always the darkness at the end.
He thought to watch for an omen, but he had given up reading portents. Or had he? He did not remember it as a conscious decision, but he could not think of the last time he had seriously considered seeking one. The practice had fallen from him without notice. And until now, he had not missed it.
So, more had changed at Dekra than he supposed. In what other ways was he changing? he wondered. Quentin spent the rest of the day in contemplation of the god who had the power to change his followers-a thing unique in the lore of all the gods he had ever known.
On the third day the ships reached the plains of Askelon. The level flatland ranged below the heights of Askelon Castle a full league to the river. It was a broad expanse, the scene of many battles, the cradle and grave of numerous campaigns.
Fringing the plain, bordering it to the south and along the Herwydd, stood the furthest reaches of Pelgrin Forest. It was here, under the protection of the trees along the river, that Selric determined to establish his base. They would camp just within the trees overlooking the plain.
When the vessels touched land, the days of waiting and inactivity were abruptly ended. Swarms of men boiled forth from the ships, carrying supplies, weapons, tents, and utensils. Horses were led ashore bearing large bundles of armor and weapons. As the ships gave forth their cargo a small city sprang up in the trees. The woods rang with the calls of men working to raise tents and axes clearing the underbrush.
“This is a good place,” remarked King Selric to Theido as they stood watching the activity. “We are protected at our back with the river behind. There is only the plain ahead. We will not be easily surprised.”
“Walk with me a little; we may be able to see the castle from here.”
They walked through the woods a short way, amidst the bustle of Selric’s men readying the camp. At the edge of the trees they could see the plain and above it, hovering like a motionless cloud, the misty bulk of Castle Askelon on its mountain. But the two had scarcely arrived when they lost all interest in viewing the scenery. Before them lay the whole of Jaspin’s army deployed upon the plain.
“Azrael take him!” cursed the king, “the fox is waiting for us!” He turned eyes wide with shock and dismay toward Theido. At the moment they heard the snap of a twig behind them and both men turned.
“So it is!” replied Durwin, taking in the sight of a thousand tents spread abroad, and the twinkling lights of evening fires beginning to dance in the dusk. “It was to be expected. They have known of our coming all along.”
“We’ll not surprise them now,” said Theido.
“And we cannot go against a force that large with the men we have. How many do you think there are?” His eyes scanned north and south as far as he could see.
“Near ten thousand by the look of it.”
“To our thousand…” King Selric’s voice trailed off.
Without speaking further the three walked back to camp.
Fires had been lit and smoke, with the tang of roasting meat and bubbling stew, drifted throughout the darkening wood. Quentin and Toli, who had been strangely occupied from the moment the ships touched land, now came forward leading a great chestnut charger.
They found Theido, Durwin, Ronsard, and the others reclined around a crackling fire in front of King Selric’s blue-and-white striped tent.
Quentin beamed brightly. “Is there a knight of this excellent fellowship who answers to the name Ronsard?”
Ronsard raised his head, a questioning look in his eye. “You know that there is, young sir. I am he.”
Quentin laughed, “Then, sir knight, stand and claim your horse!” He handed the reins to the bewildered Ronsard and stepped back to watch the effect of his jest.
“Balder!” Ronsard shouted, his face shining with unexpected happiness. “Can it be?” He threw an arm around the horse’s thick-sinewed neck and slapped the animal’s shoulder affectionately. Then he stepped away and patted his charger’s forehead saying, “You have cared for him all this time? You’ve kept him for me?”
Quentin nodded, for the first time feeling a twinge of loss at giving up the horse.
“But I have a secret to tell.” The rugged knight gazed steadily at Quentin. “Balder is not mine. My own courser was lost in the ambush of the King. This good mount belonged to one of my companions…” He faltered, but his voice was steady when he continued. “He will not be needing his horse anymore.”