“He has long been about his specialty: weaving spells over the dead. With this art he has assembled the most skilled warriors, the most courageous knights the world has ever seen. When they fell in battle he somehow knew of it and, by one means or another, spirited the body away to his castle. There he keeps them, and has kept them ever ready, preserved in death to serve his will.”

“There are six or seven of them, maybe more by now. I do not know. I have heard reports from time to time, but nothing for many years. I dared not even consider that such a thing was possible-even for Nimrood. But when we were there, in his dungeon, I felt their presence. I knew then…” Durwin’s voice lapsed as he gazed into the fire, shrinking away from it as though from some hideous memory too horrible to contemplate.

“And you said nothing?”

“I said nothing. Selric, Theido, and the others already know about it, of course. There was no need to trouble anyone else. And I had hoped there was a chance that Nimrood would withhold them for some other purpose-though that, I admit now, seems rather foolish.”

“Is there nothing to be done against them?”

“If there is, I do not know it-that is, short of Nimrood’s death. If he were to die they would perhaps be released. It is his power which binds them still to this earth. But, as you saw yourself, the enemy is ten thousand strong. Against such odds-well, Nimrood is quite safe. Had I my power…” Durwin gazed forlornly into the fire. Quentin saw the depths of hopelessness written in the hermit’s face.

Then Durwin stirred himself and stood slowly, smiling wanly at Quentin. “Still, I will watch through the night. It may be that I will discover something,” he tapped his shaggy head, “that will be useful to us. Good night, Quentin.”

“Good night.” Quentin wanted to go to Durwin, to throw his arms around the priest’s knees, to cry with him, to comfort him and be comforted. But he remained seated by the fire, and the hermit wandered off already deep in thought.

A loneliness crept over him as he sat before the snapping flames. When at last he arose to return to his bed, he felt more alone than he had ever felt in his life.

FORTY-SIX

THE SUN was a hazy red globe barely peeping above the far hills when Quentin awakened. He lay and listened to the beginning day: the lone call of a bird to its mate, the clank and rattle of iron pots in the hands of the cooks, the swish of the horses’ tails and their gentle snuffling and snoring.

He lay and listened, sifting the sound for he knew not what, seeking an answer to the meaning of his dreams.

He had dreamed through the night. A strange, disjointed vision which he had dreamed before. But this time it was clearer, more distinct than before, yet he was no closer to an answer to its riddle.

He saw it mostly as a play of color: brilliant greens of all shades infused with sparkling gold; cool white, flecked with green-gray splotches; silver-blue shadows deepening to utter black. The colors swirled and interchanged, mixing, melting into one another, but always ending in deepest darkness.

Through it all he heard a kind of music, a high-pitched ringing. A bell? Perhaps; he was not certain. Beneath the sound there lay something vague and unsettling. He cared not to look too far for its source for fear of what he might find.

The dream also carried with it a sharp feeling of longing, a beautiful loneliness, a yearning unrequited. It was an emotion which left a hollow feeling in his breast upon waking.

After some minutes he rolled himself up and went down to wash in the river. The water’s chill sting quickened him fully, and he began by degrees to forget his dream, though the strange hollow feeling remained.

As Quentin dipped his cupped hands into the clear water, splashing it over his neck and arms, he heard a commotion in the camp behind him. He jumped up, dripping, from the flat rock on which he lay and hurried back along the trail.

He arrived as a large group gathered around a rider on a foaming horse. He could not see through the crowd who the rider could be. Then he caught sight of Toli hurrying away from the scene.

“Who is it, Toli? What is the news?”

His friend fixed him with a worried look. “It is Kellaris, King Selric’s messenger. He has returned…”

“But how? He cannot have come back so soon.”

“He did not get through,” said a voice behind him. Quentin turned and met Trenn shuffling away from the crowd. “Jaspin has forces moving in on all sides. Kellaris met them in the night. He was pursued-there is no way out. We are trapped.”

The words were a pronouncement of doom in Quentin’s ears. Trenn stumbled off to inform Queen Alinea. Quentin turned again to Toli who merely stared back with his round, dark eyes. What the Jher was thinking made no impression on his face that Quentin could read.

He was about to suggest they go find some breakfast when he remembered something that stopped him where he stood. “Theido and Ronsard-where are they?” he asked.

Toli looked back at him for a moment. “Why, they have gone to scout the enemy. They left before dawn with five knights. They rode to the south along the river.”

“But that is the way Kellaris went,” Quentin said, a note of alarm rising in his voice. “They will be ambushed and killed! Someone must warn them! Quickly, ready Balder!”

At first Toli hesitated, as if to object to his master’s command. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, turned and hurried off with Quentin on his heels.

In a twinkling Balder stood ready, and as Quentin bounded into the saddle of the mighty courser he saw Toli spring lightly onto his own mount’s bare back. “Come along, then,” cried Quentin. “We will go together.”

They trotted through the camp from behind the ring of tents. Durwin and Selric were standing in conference with Kellaris, and Quentin called out to them as he spurred his horse away. “We go to warn Theido and Ronsard!”

“No! Wait!” shouted Durwin after them. King Selric barked an order. “Somebody stop them! Come back!”

But they were already bounding away through the woods and were gone. “The god be with them,” sighed Durwin.

Toli led the way, following the trail of the scouting party with his tracker’s sharp eyes. They rode, it seemed, for hours. The initial excitement of the moment quieted to a drumming sense of urgency. Quentin feared that if they did not find them soon, it would be too late.

The sun was up and throwing bright light into the wood, sending slanting rays of yellow beams through the ground mist which wafted over the path to vanish as it touched the light. The woods smelled of damp earth and growing things. A patch of mint grew somewhere nearby; its cool scent tinted the air as Balder moved on.

Then, just ahead, they heard a sound: horses moving through the underbrush, the clink of their harnesses and the soft creak of leather. The low tones of a rider talking with his companion came to them as Toli reined his spotted black and white to a halt. Quentin bumped up beside him. “Have we found them, do you think?” he asked hopefully.

Toli frowned. “We must find a place to see them where they cannot see us.” He led them off the trail and around to a place where the trail would again pass in front of them. They waited. The unknown party came closer. Quentin could hear their voices, though he could not make out the words.

Toli slid from his mount and crept to the edge of the trail. Then they were within sight. Quentin could see a white shape moving through the trees, followed closely by another, and then another. As they approached Quentin lost sight of them; the surrounding trees which protected him cut them off from view.

Quietly he urged Balder forward a few steps. The dark leaves shaded his face. Toli stood beside him.