He swiveled his head and saw the serpent’s head weaving above him. The monster moved, rolling him over to deliver the death blow. Quentin drew the sword to his breast.

The serpent’s glowing eyes stared into his own, the black-forked tongue flickered as the wicked head descended. In the same instant Quentin raised the sword.

The head swung down. Quentin felt the sword suddenly wrenched from his hands. He heard a raging hiss and opened his eyes to see the sword sticking through the serpent’s mouth and out the back of its head. The monster had impaled itself upon the sword.

The coils loosened as the snake began to thrash upon the floor. In an instant Quentin had another arm free and then he was on his knees. He dragged himself aside as the serpent rolled into a seething ball to crush itself in its own coils. The creature writhed and squirmed as its movements grew more and more erratic.

At last, with one final terrible convulsion, the serpent lay still.

Quentin knelt, hands on the cold stone, dragging the cool air into his lungs in racking gulps. He heard a queer bubbling sizzle and glanced up to see the monstrous creature begin to shrivel and wriggle, melting together. Quentin stared. Green smoke issued from its body, covered it, and then it was gone. A trailing tendril of smoke curled up where the awful serpent had lain. And then that too vanished.

Quentin rested panting at the edge of the bier and allowed life to return. His ribs ached and his hand, where he had gripped the sword, stung. He looked down to see blood dripping from his fingers. He drew a long, shaky breath and turned toward the King. The eerie, blue radiance which had surrounded his body was gone-as if whatever life force had clung to the remnant had been extinguished.

A pang of grief stabbed through his heart, for it appeared to him that now, beyond all doubt, the King lay dead. No breath stirred the great chest. No presence remained.

Quentin turned to go. There was nothing to be done.

But to have found him and then to leave seemed to Quentin grievously inappropriate.

Quentin bowed his head and offered up a prayer. “Father of Life,” he prayed, using Toli’s name for the god, “return the life of our King.” He thought for a moment and added, “Raise up a champion to lead us in victory over our enemies…” He stopped then because he could think of nothing more to say.

He stepped close to the King’s body and reached out to touch the cold, lifeless face. As he extended his hand, a drop of blood fell from his fingertip and splashed onto the King’s lip.

He stared at the crimson splotch.

In the faint light from the tomb’s entrance he imagined he saw color seeping out from the drop of blood, spreading over the features of the King. He stared transfixed as a wondrous change occurred.

The King’s stiff features softened; the cold, gray flesh warmed and took on the appearance of life. Quentin watched, not daring to move, not daring to blink or look away. He saw color return to the Lifeless hands crossed upon his breast. He saw the tiny beat of a pulse appear just below the jaw.

A silver light seemed to emanate from the King’s countenance-a radiance which quickened the still features. It grew until Quentin could not bear to look upon it. He threw an arm over his eyes, and when he looked again the light was gone and he saw the quiver of an eyelid and heard the long sigh of air drawn in through the nostrils.

Quentin dropped to his knees. Tears trickled down his cheeks to splatter in the dust of the vault. He bowed his head for a brief moment in silent thanksgiving. He heard a low moan, and rose to his feet and bent over the King. Another sigh and King Eskevar opened his eyes.

In all that followed Quentin could never be certain what happened or in what order it happened, who spoke first or the exact words-everything seemed to happen at once.

He remembered telling King Eskevar of the danger and of the battle taking place on the field. He remembered Eskevar rising off the slab unsteadily and falling in a crash to the floor. He remembered a feeling of inexpressible joy when the King placed a hand on his shoulder, gripped it tightly and said, “Well done, brave knight.”

They were then out of the crypt and moving toward Balder, Eskevar growing stronger with every stride. The sun shone high overhead, a fierce hard ball, filling Quentin with hope and determination as he strode somewhat painfully across the green expanse.

The two mounted Balder, Quentin sitting in back of the King, filling in the details of his story as they rode off together.

“There must be some who are loyal to me,” the King cried, his deep voice booming through the forest. “We shall find them!”

Quentin could not help thinking that unless they found ten thousand who had not bowed knee to Jaspin, their search was but in vain.

“First to Askelon,” said the King. “The common people will fight for their King in need. We will raise an army of farmers and merchants if we must!”

They dodged through the forest and struck the road to Askelon. Eskevar rode easily in the saddle; Quentin bounced along behind, holding on as best he could.

It seemed only moments before they were clattering through the streets of Askelon below the castle. The King struck for the center of town and raised himself in the saddle, sword held high in the common square.

“Countrymen! Your King has returned!” His voice seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle rock itself.

“Follow me!” he called. “Our kingdom is in peril! Bring sword and shield; bring rake and pike, spade and pitchfork. To arms! For Mensandor!”

When the people heard this they marveled and fell on their knees. The women cried and the men looked upon him in astonishment. A great cry went up, “The King has returned! The Dragon King lives!”

Men ran through the streets, bidding all to join the call to arms. A smith came running up leading a white horse, already saddled and prancing in eager anticipation. Eskevar leaped onto the horse and waved his rude army on.

They had scarcely left the city and taken up the road leading down to the plain before they met a large number of men dressed in dark green tunics and carrying pikes and longbows, with quivers full of new arrows slung about their shoulders.

Eskevar, with Quentin right behind him, stopped in the road as the men approached. Upon seeing the King, the leader of these men kneeled, crying out in a loud voice, “Your faithful servant, Sire. My men are at your command.”

The man and his manner seemed familiar to Quentin. Where had he seen them before? Then he remembered one cold night in Pelgrin when the forest had come alive with bush-men. When the man rose again to his feet Quentin recognized the tough, weathered face of Voss, but now the number of his brood had swelled to several hundred.

“We heard there was fighting yonder,” said Voss, approaching his beloved King. “We bethought ourselves to go and strike a blow for King and kingdom. We did not expect to be led into battle by the Dragon King himself.”

“Your loyalty shall be rewarded, for today you shall see your King take sword against his enemies. Follow me!” The King wheeled his charger into the road and led his people into battle.

With every step their numbers grew. Twice Quentin looked around and was amazed at what he saw: a surging sea of rough wooden pikes and pitchforks bristled in the sun; rakes, hoes and other implements turned for the present into weapons for Mensandor’s Dragon King.

A song soared up from bold and happy hearts and winged its way into the bright heavens: