“But you were his last master. He is yours all the more since his owner is gone.”

“No, I cannot take him. An animal like this one,” he patted the sleek jaw, “chooses his own master. I think he has chosen you.”

Quentin could not believe his ears. But the others sitting nearby agreed with Ronsard. Theido said, “Every brave knight should have a charger just as brave. Balder is the only horse for you, I think.”

Durwin added, “You have grown much and have become a real horseman-very different from the young acolyte I found curled upon my hearth,” he laughed, “who left his horse to fend for himself while he slept!”

Quentin colored with the memory, but he gratefully accepted the reins back from Ronsard and eagerly led his horse away to be bedded for the night.

The company ate a simple meal in silence, which Quentin thought unusual. There had not been a quiet mealtime among the high-spirited companions since they had sighted land. Queen Alinea did not even come out of her tent to eat, but remained within. Trenn ate quickly, grumbled, and left to attend to her.

One by one the others went away to their rest. Quentin knew something was wrong, but he did not have the heart or the nerve to ask outright what it was, feeling that it would only further dampen already depressed spirits. He wondered if the mood around the campfire was a reflection of his own of the last few days. He turned this over in his head as he lay under the low evergreen where Toli had prepared their places near the horses.

He rested, but he could not sleep. After a while the noises of the camp died down as the soldiers went to sleep. Quentin rose and returned to the fire where he found Durwin sitting all alone, stroking his beard and gazing into the dwindling flames.

“What is it?” he asked the hermit softly.

“Do you not know?” asked Durwin. His eyes did not leave the fire. “Go and see for yourself.” He waved his arm toward the plain.

Quentin got up and made his way through the wood and came to stand at the very edge. There, spread out upon the plain, light from hundreds of fires twinkled like stars in the sky. For a moment he wondered what it could mean, but then the significance hit him. He felt a catch in his throat and a sharp pang arrowed through his chest. He stumbled disheartened back to the place where Durwin kept his vigil.

“There are thousands of them. Thousands…”

“So it is. I should have foreseen this. I should have known.” He fell silent again.

“Why did they not swoop down upon us the moment we landed?” asked Quentin a few minutes later. He too had become absorbed in watching the fire, though his thoughts were very far away.

“I wondered the same thing. I have been thinking about it all night. Why not, indeed?”

“I will tell you!” the hermit said suddenly. “They are waiting for someone. Yes, that must be it. They already possess the advantage of superior numbers; they could destroy us without delay. Yet, they hesitate. Why? Because someone’s presence is required. A commander? Perhaps. But someone who must arrive before the battle begins.”

It seemed perfectly obvious the way Durwin said it just then. Quentin wondered that he himself had not thought of it. His eyes sought Durwin’s face, red in the glow of the fire’s embers. Durwin seemed blind to the world as he sought an answer within the glowing coals. Quentin got up and placed another log on the fire, and presently yellow flames were flitting and crackling once more.

But the hermit remained unmoved, as if he were boring into the very heart of the earth for an answer. Quentin watched, his senses tingling. Gradually, Durwin’s calm features were changing, little by little becoming a mask of terror.

At that moment Quentin felt the tingle of a chill, as if an icy finger had licked the length of his spine. He shivered in spite of himself.

With an effort Durwin tore his eyes away from the fire. He turned a horror-stricken countenance toward Quentin-flesh pale from the exertion, eyes showing white all around. “There. You felt it, too, just then. They are coming… the Legion of the Dead. They come.”

Quentin’s heart fluttered in his chest. He glanced toward the moon hanging ripe over the treetops, spilling a cold, comfortless light down upon them. To Quentin it seemed to have shrunk inward as if oppressed, or drawn back by some unseen hand. He shivered again.

Then Durwin was on his feet, grasping a long straight branch like a wizard’s staff, his face frightful in the red light. “King Selric!” his voice boomed a summons in the quiet darkness. He strode toward the tent calling for the king and others to awaken.

“Send your swiftest rider to the south, to Hinsenby,” he told the king who met him as he stumbled from his tent half-asleep.

“What is it?” The question came from all who had gathered instantly around the hermit. “What have you seen?” asked Theido.

“The Legion of the Dead. Send your swiftest courier to the coast. Mayhap he shall meet with Eskevar’s returning forces. It is our only chance.”

“Help would be welcome in any case,” replied Selric, “But this…”

“I am not afraid of Nimrood’s foul Legion,” swore Ronsard.

“That is because you do not know them,” answered Durwin. He shook his head slowly, as if remembering a great tragedy. “They are terrible to behold: the greatest knights of the age. In death they serve him. Immortal. They cannot be killed in battle by blade or bolt. They fight and do not grow weary, for they are strengthened by the power of their dark lord.”

“Then what good are numbers against them? Were we ten times as many could they be defeated?” Selric sighed, bewildered.

“With aid we may find an advantage. Without it we will not last long enough to try,” said Ronsard.

“Kellaris will go,” said Selric. “Call him,” he ordered one of his men away. And to another he commanded, “Make ready a horse. The swiftest. Better give him my own.” The man darted away and Selric turned to the others. “The choice agrees with you?”

“I would go,” offered Ronsard.

“Stay, sir, we will need you here the more, most like.”

“If his horse had wings, still I wonder if it were fast enough,” said Theido. “How long do you think they will remain encamped on the plain yonder?” He turned to Durwin whose brow wrinkled in speculation.

“I cannot say for certain. A day I think. Yes, perhaps more. I can feel them coming, but they are a long way off. There is a little time yet.”

“Then tomorrow at dawn Ronsard and I will ride out to scout the enemy’s position,” said Theido. “We may find a weakness in their defenses which we can turn to our advantage.”

“Yes, an excellent idea.” The impatient stamp of a horse and the jingle of his bridle interrupted Selric. “Ah! Here is Kellaris! Ride like the wind, man. Bring help.”

“I would rather remain here with you, my King,” the knight replied.

“And I would have no one else by my side. But the need is great. On your way and do not fail.”

The knight raised his hand in salute and, turning the horse, leapt away and was lost in the darkness. For a long while Quentin imagined he could hear the horse’s hooves pounding away in the night.

The others dispersed then, each his own way. Quentin sought Durwin’s side as they walked back to the fire.

“What is the Legion of the Dead?” Quentin asked when they were once again seated before the dancing flames. “I have never heard of it before.”

“‘Twere better no one ever heard of it.” Durwin sighed. He had just about reached the depths of exhaustion. He drew his lips away from his teeth, as if he were about to bite into a bitter fruit.

“Nimrood’s sorcery knows no bounds. He dares all and fears nothing. Where others quail he treads boldly. He has looked upon the face of evil from the time he was young. He has delved to the very heart of evil itself and has grasped it in his hand.”