JASPIN met Nimrood’s eyes with a look impossible to interpret: a mingling of relief and disappointment, of anguish and fleeting hope. “I… I don’t… understand… I…” Jaspin stammered.

Nimrood’s eyes sparked lightning and his voice cracked thunder. “The prize is gone! My prize has vanished!”

He cast a hateful glance out across the plain where King Selric’s army waited. “Black is the day of your doom! Your bodies shall be food for the carrion birds and your bones scattered to the ends of the earth! You will not escape Nimrood’s wrath now!”

Then seizing his marble rod he held it aloft and wailed a long incantation into the air. The black stallion beneath him shook its mane and pawed the earth, whinnying its impatience. Nimrood paid no heed; he raised himself in the saddle and repeated the incantation. “Ratra Nictu deasori Maranna Rexis!”

A cool breeze stirred the silk of Jaspin’s pavilion. The red and gold banners on their stanchions fluttered and the pennons waved, as a small dark cloud appeared in the sky. Nimrood continued his incantation, eyes closed, hissing out the fearful words.

The wind rose and the banners swung and the pennons on the lances of the knights snapped smartly. The roiling cloud mushroomed, spreading into a churning, seething storm. The ropes of Jaspin’s silk pavilion sang in the whistling wind.

The Legion of the Dead came riding on the wings of the storm.

Six of them there were-riding two abreast on snorting chargers. They rode from the south, galloping out of the forest. A murmur went up from the assembled armies, and as they drew nearer, those who stood in line with their approach fell back. Jaspin watched them come closer and closer. Six knights in sable armor-the color of darkest night-long black plumes floating from the crests of their helms. They looked neither right nor left, but galloped at a measured pace to halt directly before the pavilion. Their visors concealed any recognizable feature; no glint of eye sparked from the dark slits.

The earth plunged into an eerie twilight as the clouds boiled up and blotted out the sun. All grew deathly still. No one spoke, no one shouted; ten thousand men stood as one. Silent. The only sounds were the howl of the rising wind, the snap of the whipping flags, and the impatient blowing of the horses.

At a gesture from Nimrood the foremost of the knights of Nimrood’s fell Legion urged his mount forward to stand directly in front of Jaspin. The chink of the horse’s iron-shod hooves rang in Jaspin’s ears like the clang of a funeral knell. The pale usurper winced and shrank away from the black knight’s address.

“The day is ours!” shouted the necromancer boldly, so all gathered on the plain could hear. Then, turning to Jaspin he said, “Look upon the face of death, and despair!”

Jaspin watched in horror-his heart trembled within his breast, his blood ran to ice in his veins-as the appalling specter placed a black gauntlet to its visor and slowly raised it. Jaspin closed his eyes and looked away.

“See my handiwork!” cried the wizard.

Jaspin turned again to meet the apparition’s gray, bloodless face. And as he cowered before it, the knight’s ashen lids slowly opened to regard Jaspin with a chilling stare. Jaspin gripped the carved arms of his throne and uttered a low cry: the knight had no eyes!

“Away!” sobbed Jaspin.

Durwin turned his face into the streaming wind. His knowing eyes watched the great black clouds rolling over the plains of Askelon and regarded the sky growing murky as the unnatural, gloomy twilight descended upon the battlefield.

“Nimrood has arrived. He is here, and his Legion with him,” said the hermit. “We must ready ourselves for the final assault.”

“I am ready,” said Ronsard. His strong tone held no trace of fear. “I have faced death many times: he is too old an adversary for me to quail in his sight now.”

“Well said, Ronsard,” replied Theido. “I, too, am ready. Come what may, I see glory waiting for us all out there.” He nodded with eyes squinted toward the plain. “I mean to earn my share.”

“Aye,” agreed King Selric, “and a place in men’s hearts wherever deeds of valor are storied round the fire.”

Alinea, who had been long silent, now lifted her eyes to the horizon and looked her last upon the shimmering shape of Askelon’s far walls, misty in the distance. Trenn, his mouth set in a defiant frown, stood resolutely beside her.

“I am a woman,” said the Queen softly, “and no soldier. But for the love of my King I will gladly take my place beside my gallant friends, and gladly pledge my life to theirs.”

Trenn said nothing, but his thick neck bulged as he tightened his grip on his sword and touched its hilt to his heart.

Toli, who had returned from the forest after searching fruitless hours for his missing master, grasped a longbow and notched an arrow onto the taut gut. Beneath his dark aspect a smoldering fire kindled against those who had cut his master down.

Into the stillness that had settled over the plain the comrades-at-arms heard the growl of distant thunder marching through the heavens toward them. King Selric took his place at the head of his soldiers and sprang up onto a rock to address them, raising his hands and voice into the air.

“Men of Drin, my warriors! Hear me! You have made me proud to be your king, and though our time grows short, I would ask no greater boon than to lead you into battle one last time.”

“The enemy is great, but though he break our bodies he will never vanquish the proud spirit that strengthens us to our end. Fight well, my friends. Look not behind, but look ahead. Glory and honor will you earn this day. Be worthy of it. Be strong. Be not afraid.”

The soldiers, still as statues, now raised sword and spear, and with a mighty shout a thousand voices rang out, “For glory! For honor! For our King!”

Then, taking their swords, they began to beat upon their shields and sing a battle song, chanting to the rhythmic cadence. With Selric in the lead, they ranged themselves into the shape of a spearhead and marched out upon the plain, there to await the foe.

Theido and Ronsard took their knights and drew up beside their fearless comrades, flanking either side of the formation. The warhorses tossed their heads and snorted as the wind gusted smoke from the burning woods across the battlefield.

Again they heard the sound of drums as the enemy came forth. Theido looked round to catch the eye of Durwin to bid his friend a last farewell, but saw that the hermit had vanished again.

Then, through the smoke rolling across the plain, the enemy emerged once more. This time they were led in close procession by the six black riders of Nimrood’s Legion of the Dead.

They stopped. The drums quickened their tempo. The six lowered their lances, and at the trumpet’s blast they spurred their chargers forward.

The Legion flew across the plain, their horses’ hooves striking sparks as they hurtled across the gap. Behind them came the knights of Jaspin’s forces, followed by the foot soldiers who now began to run with a mighty shout.