The horse jumped away, and Quentin saw the earth spin aside in a jumble of confused shapes: branches, rocks, sky and ground. He saw a light and then another. He heard a shout close at hand and an answer not far away. His teeth ground against each other as he clung helplessly to the saddle.

Now the shouts of the enemy were all around. A dark shape rushed at them from out of the brush. Toli slashed down at it with the reins. Suddenly the copse was ablaze with torches. Toli jerked the reins hard and turned the horse toward the slope, but it was too steep for the frightened animal The horse struggled, slid, pawed the air and then fell back, legs pumping furiously.

Quentin was flung to the ground and Toli on top of him. In an instant they were ringed in by soldiers and seized. Quentin saw the flash of a torch and the awful scowl of a face leering over him; then black hands grabbed him and began dragging him away. He heard a voice shouting in desperation and realized it was his own. But he could not make out the words.

He jerked his head around to see what had become of Toli, but could only see the swinging torches behind him. How bright the flaming brands are, he thought. It hurt his eyes to look at them. Run, get away! another voice told him, this one inside his head. Yes, he must escape. If only they would release him, he would run and run and not stop running until he was far away.

Where were they taking him? he wondered. What would happen to him? The questions framed themselves in his mind, but no answers came. Very well, it did not matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He had ceased to feel anything at all. Numb with pain, he was transported into a hallucinatory vision.

There was a rush of black wings and suddenly he was soaring, falling, tumbling, floating high above the earth. Quentin looked down and saw a strange procession of torchbearers marching through a wooded dell. They carried with them the bodies of two unfortunates. Who could they be? Quentin was sorry for them.

Sadly, be turned his eyes away and saw the dark edge of the night sweeping toward him.

It was as if a silken veil had passed before his eyes removing all from view. He let it touch him and enfold him in its dark embrace. Quentin felt the last fine threads of strength and will leave him and he knew no more.

SEVENTEEN

THE CANDLES burned low in their tall holders; several had sputtered out and the inner chamber of the Elders smelled of hot beeswax and tallow. The Elders sat stonelike, each one hunched over, head bowed and hands clasped. All was silent, but for the rhythmic sigh of their breathing.

The night had drawn full measure, and still they sat. Waiting. Listening. Searching within themselves for an answer to Yeseph’s dream-a most disturbing dream.

Then at last the waiting was over, for Clemore raised his hands and began to sing. “Peran nim Panrai, rigelle des onus Whist Orren. Entona blesori amatill kor des yoel belforas.” He sang in the ancient tongue of the Ariga. “King of Kings, whose name is Most High, your servant praises your name forever.”

The three others slowly raised their heads and looked at Clemore. His eyes were closed and his hands raised to either side of his face.

“Speak, Elder Clemore. Tell us what has been revealed to you,” Patur said quietly. The others nodded and leaned back in their high-backed wooden chain; the vigil was over.

Clemore, eyes still closed, began to speak. “The river is Truth and the water Peace,” he said. “And the river runs through the land giving life to all who seek it, for Truth is life.

“But the storm of war descends, and its evil defiles the water. Truth is poisoned by the lie and is choked off. When Truth perishes and Peace dries up, the land dies. And the gales of war blow over the land filling the sky with clouds of death, which is the dust. Then darkness-Evil-covers all, blotting out the light of Good.

“The child who cries out in the darkness is a Child of the Light who has lost his father, the ways of righteousness. His father’s sword is the knowledge of the Truth, which has been destroyed.

“But there are some left who do not go down to death and darkness, who still remember the River and the Water and the Living Land. They are the man who weeps. The tears are the prayers of the Holy who mourn the coming of Evil.

“The prayers are poured out and become a Sword of Light which is Faith. The Sword flashes against the darkness of Evil because it is alive with the Spirit of the Most High. The Sword is to be given to the Child, but alas! the Child has been overcome by the Night and is carried off.”

When Clemore had finished his retelling of the dream they all spoke at once, joining in agreement with the interpretation. Yeseph’s voice rang above the others. “Brothers! We must not forget that dreams may have several meanings and all of them true. I do not doubt that the interpretation we have just heard is truly of the Most High. But I am troubled by one thing.”

“What is that?” asked Jollen. He opened his hand toward Yeseph, inviting him to speak freely. “It was your dream, after all”

“I feel as if there were some more present danger yet unspoken.”

“Certainly the dream is dire enough, Yeseph,” said Patur.

“And its interpretation is clear warning,” added Clemore.

“Yes, a warning of something to come,” said Yeseph slowly, “but also a reflection of something even now taking place.”

“Well said, Yeseph. I think so, too.” Jollen reached across and touched his arm. “The interpretation was given to us that we might be ready for what is to come. The dream was given to us that we might know there is peril even now upon us.”

Clemore nodded gravely, and Patur pulled on his gray beard.

“What does your heart tell you, Yeseph? What are we to do?” asked the latter.

“I hardly know, Patur. But I feel a great torment in my spirit. It has grown through the night as we have sat here.” He glanced at the others. “I feel that we must even now pray for the Child of Light whom we have sent out from among us.”

“Who is that, Yeseph?” asked Clemore.

“Quentin.”

“Quentin? But he is in Askelon.”

“Quentin, yes. And Toli, too. They are in desperate need; I feel it.

“Then it may be,” replied Jollen, "that our prayers are needed at this moment if the dream is to have an ending.” He turned to the others. “I, too, am troubled about Yeseph’s dream. It does not suggest an end, which means that the end is still in doubt. Therefore, we must unite our spirits, and those of our people, to bring about the ending which the Most High will show us.”

“Your thoughts are mine,” said Yeseph.

“Then let us not waste another moment. Our prayers must begin at once.” Jollen raised his hands and closed his eyes. The others followed his example.

In moments the temple chamber was filled with the murmur of the Elder’s prayers ascending to the throne of Whist Orren. Outside the temple the silvery light of dawn was tinting the gray curtain of night in the east

Dawn brought with it a sullen chill. The horizon showed an angry red, dull and brooding, though the sky seemed clear enough overhead. The wind had changed with the coming of morning; Toli had noted it as he lay bound beside his master. Quentin hardly breathed at all. He clung to life with a tenuous grasp. Several times before dawn Toli had had to place his ear against Quentin’s chest to see if he still lived.

In the camp the soldiers were busy making ready for their day’s march. Toli, whose eyes missed nothing, had a presentiment that he and Quentin would not be making the trip with them, for he had seen a group of soldiers readying ropes and harness, and the three guards who now stood over them laughed and pointed at them. Toli knew that the means of their execution was being prepared.