“Twice we have turned them away,” beamed Ronsard when they had again rejoined before the king. “What scheme can we hold to next to beat them back?”

“I have one,” replied Theido. Even after two sallies he was scarcely breathing hard. “If they do not send too many against us, it may work.”

Again the charge came, and again the small cohort was successful in disadvantaging the superior forces of Jaspin and his nobles. When they at last withdrew, the field of battle lay cluttered with fallen men and horses. The ground beneath them was stained dark with their blood.

In a pavilion of blue sendal constructed above the field on a high scaffold so to command the best view of the battle sat King Jaspin upon his traveling throne, sputtering with rage.

“Sir Bran! Sir Grenett!” Jaspin shouted, his face blackened with anger. “Lord Orwen! Lord Enmore!” The knights and nobles, grimy with sweat and dirt, their armor bearing deep gashes and crimson smudges, approached the pavilion on horseback.

Jaspin leaped out of his seat and threw a shaking finger into their faces. “You fools!” he screamed. “They are making sport of you! Cut them down! Crush them!”

“‘Twere easier to crush a stone, than a stream,” answered Sir Bran. “Or to cut down a sapling as a shadow.”

“They do not stand and fight,” complained Sir Grenett. “They vanish before the charge and appear in our midst. They have our bumbling, ill-trained foot soldiers attacking one another.”

“Do something! Soon Nimrood will arrive, and I had hoped to win this campaign on my own.”

“It is too late,” whispered Ontescue from behind him. “The wizard is already here.” Jaspin turned to see the black shape of Nimrood ride around the far side of his pavilion. The necromancer sat astride a black horse that looked half wild and pawed the ground as it snorted. Nimrood wore a black, crowned helm with wings sweeping back from either side, and a long black cloak edged with silver. In his hand he carried a rod of ebony marble inlaid with silver tracery in strange, convoluted patterns.

“Nimrood!” said Jaspin. His breath rattled in his throat. “We were waiting for you.”

“Were you indeed? I see dead stacked upon the field like kindling-they died of boredom, no doubt.”

“The fiends attacked us without warning. We had to retaliate. Th-there was no choice,” Jaspin stuttered.

“From the look of it, I would say they displayed the most remarkable luck,” the sorcerer sneered. “A thousand attacking ten thousand and holding them at bay. Ha!” Nimrood turned stiffly in his high-backed saddle and spat out orders to the knights and nobles gathered before the pavilion.

“Go back to your men at once. Nurse their courage, revive their spirit. And wait. When I return I will bring my Legion to show you how to fight. I go now to bring my commander.”

“He is here?” Jaspin gasped and sank back into his throne limp and trembling.

“Close by,” hissed Nimrood. “I return within the hour. Meanwhile, do nothing. This battle will be over ere long. It should have been finished long ago. But never mind. You will all see a spectacle you will never forget.”

With that the wizard spurred his jittery steed forward and galloped off across the plain and into the wood beyond.

“What is this Legion that the mad magician speaks of, sire?” asked Sir Bran. “Why should we wait? We can finish them now, ourselves. The victory is ours!”

Jaspin waved the suggestion aside with a damp hand. His jaw hung slack and his eyes remained focused on some far distant view. When he came to his senses he looked around feebly and said, “You will see soon enough. You will all see soon enough.”

“We can finish them this time. I know it,” insisted Bran.

“No!” shouted Jaspin, leaping to his feet. Spittle drooled from his lips; he looked like an enraged bull. “It is too late! Too late! We will wait!” He waved them away and hunched back into his throne. He passed a kerchief over his face and gestured for Ontescue to draw the curtain of his pavilion for privacy. He would wait alone.

“Oh!” he cried out in utter anguish. Sobs racked his body “What have I done? What have I done?”

FORTY-EIGHT

FROM SOMEWHERE far away Quentin heard the sharp tinkling of bells, high-pitched and floating overhead, as if the sound was carried on the wind. And another sound-a low murmur, like laughter.

Light danced above him; he could trace its movement through his eyelids. He felt warm and dreamy, and realized that something was tickling his cheek and the hollow of his neck.

He opened his eyes.

For the briefest instant he thought he must be back at Dekra. The feeling passed even as it formed. Above him a green canopy caught the sun and dashed its golden light into a thousand shifting patterns. The bells he had heard were tiny twittering birds flittering from branch to branch in the great, spreading oak upon whose roots he lay. He absently placed his hand to his cheek and brought it away wet. Then he turned and saw Balder lower his nose to nudge him once more.

“All right, old boy. I am awake,” Quentin murmured.

He pushed himself up slowly on his elbows. In a few seconds the dizziness subsided, to be replaced by a dull, throbbing ache which spread throughout his body, but seemed localized in his left leg. He felt the leg, suddenly remembering how he came to be lying on the ground gazing up at the leafy roof above.

The wound had stopped bleeding and the blood had dried. Quentin surmised that he had been unconscious for some time. He reached out a hand and grabbed a strap of Balder’s harness and hoisted himself to his feet. With a little effort he found he could walk, though stiffly at first and with some pain.

He scanned his surroundings. Though utterly strange to him, he felt the place was familiar somehow. Yet he knew he had never seen it before. He was, as near as he could make out, at one side of a gigantic earthen ring. His eyes followed the smooth grassy embankment around its circumference until he lost it behind a stand of ancient oaks which occupied the center of the ring.

All around the inside of the circle stood white carven stones, thick slabs as tall as Quentin, now pockmarked with age and flecked with green and gray lichen.

The standing stones threw shadows upon the lawn at odd angles as some of the stones were tilted and leaning precariously.

His eyes swept inward and only then noticed the mysterious mounds standing like so many gigantic, grass-covered beehives. All was peaceful; all quiet. But Quentin felt a thrill of something like fear race up the back of his neck and set his scalp tingling.

He had been here before: in his dream.

He had seen it all in his dream; and not once but many times.

It appeared very different, to be sure; the reality formed the opposite side of the coin. But it was the same coin-of that Quentin was certain. The inner feeling of remembrance told him as much.

But where was he? And what were the odd-shaped earthen beehives?

All sense of urgency-still nagging at the back of his mind-diminished in light of the singular feeling which washed over him like a cold stream. Quentin stood gazing around him. I am supposed to be here, he thought aloud.

Leaving Balder to nibble the grass at the base of the oak, Quentin hobbled toward the center of the ring, descending down into the bowl. It was ancient; he could see that. The cracked faces of the standing stones were worn, the inscriptions nearly obliterated by time and the elements.

Whoever had made it, Quentin was sure, had lived long ago. Back in the age of the mysterious mound builders, perhaps. Remnants of the mound builders’ work still existed, tucked away in far corners of the land. Spirals, hillocks, rings-queer shapes all.

He heard a gurgling sound and the splash of water trickling over stone. He parted a leafy bower and stepped into a shaded spot where a small spring bubbled, pouring up its water into a clear, gemlike pool. Quentin knelt and dipped his cupped hand into the icy liquid. He drank and noticed the white stones placed around the perimeter of the pool, and just above the pool where the spring delivered its water the shrine to the god of the spring. A carved stone image of the god the peasants called Pol stood in the shrine. Once he would have poured a libation to the god, but Quentin merely nodded to the idol’s perpetual stare and continued again on his way.