“I am sorry,” sniffed Alinea. She raised her eyes to the kindly old priest’s. “I did not mean to belittle you. Your help has been most valuable. I just-”

“Say no more. I, too, wish Durwin here. He has far more knowledge of the world and men than I. I have been too long on my mountain removed from the ways of mortals, and I feel old and useless. Let us hope that Durwin will return soon.”

“Let us pray that he does.”

“Yes, my Lady. By all means let us pray that he does.”

Eskevar went out from the eastern tower and strode along the battlements in the cold, mocking light of the star. His great cloak swept like a huge dark wing after him, the silver dragon device glittering in the strange light. Theido and Ronsard marched gravely by his side, and when they had reached the midpoint along the inner curtain battlements Eskevar stopped and looked down at the ranks of soldiers which had been joined to hear him speak.

As he looked down upon them, seeing their fearful faces turned upward to his, seeking strength there and wisdom and assurance, he felt very old and very tired. They were sapping him, he thought, and it was as if he felt his strength ebbing away even as he gazed down upon them. He felt too tired, too used up, to speak.

But they were waiting, watching him. His men were watching and waiting for him to banish their fears. How could he do that, he wondered, when he could not banish his own? What words were there? What magic could make it happen?

Without knowing what he would say, Eskevar opened his mouth and began to speak, his voice falling down from on high like the voice of a god.

He spoke and heard his voice echoing back into the small places of the inner ward. Murmurs arose in response to his words, and Eskevar feared he had said something wrong, that he had run afoul of his own purpose. But he spoke on, oblivious to the words which tumbled from his mouth unbidden. They are right, he thought bitterly, the King is insane. He is babbling like an idiot from the battlements and does not know what he is saying.

The murmurs changed gradually to shouts and then to cheers. As Eskevar’s last words died away, the inner ward yard erupted in shouts of acclaim and hearty cheers and battle cries. Then suddenly the soldiers were singing an ancient battle song of Mensandor and somehow he, Eskevar, was moving through the thronging soldiers, touching them and being touched by them.

The Dragon King stood among his troops, bewildered by their cheers and high acclaim. He was humbled, realizing he did not know what he had said; he was gratified, knowing that his words had been the right ones.

The cheers and songs had not run their course when they were interrupted by a sound not heard in Askelon for five hundred years. Boom! The sound rolled away like hollow thunder. Boom! Boom! It came again, and all around the Dragon King became silent. The cheering stopped; the singing shrank away. Boom! Boom! Boom!

The Ningaal had brought a battering ram to the gates of Askelon. The siege war had begun.

FIFTY

“I CAN SCARCE believe it still,” Quentin said, flexing his arm. “It is as if it had never been injured at all. Better even! And look; the skin is not withered and the muscle is firm.”

Toli, standing near as Durwin unwrapped the bandages and removed the splints, replied, “I can well believe it. The stories of old were true ones. The Khoen Navish still exist after all these years.”

The two glowing lumps of rock shimmered like fiery white coals fresh from the fire as they lay beside the black pool. Durwin finishing examining Quentin’s arm and satisfied himself that, indeed, it was whole and healthy once more. “So it is!” the hermit said, still prodding Quentin’s arm with his fingers. “Your arm is fully healed most wondrously. If I had not set it myself, I would say that it was never broken.”

Durwin cocked his head to one side and observed Quentin closely. “I see nothing now that would prevent you from lifting the Zhaligkeer. Do you?”

With a thrill like the touch of a spark to the skin, Quentin remembered all his old misgivings which he had succeeded in putting far out of his mind. In an instant they all rushed back upon him like a flood, quenching his excitement of the moment. Something like fear grabbed him in his gut and squeezed with an iron grip.

“Do you still think I am the one?”

“Why do you fear? You have already chosen to follow the Most High. This is the way he has set for you. Do not turn away from it.”

Quentin stood looking at the blazing stones. “But the prophecy… It is…” Words failed him.

“You think that you will be alone? Is that it? Ha! You will not rid yourself of us that easily. We will be ever at your side. Do not think the Most High makes his servants tread only lonely paths. His ways are more clearly seen with the help of others of like spirit. He has given us to you, as you have been given to us, that we might help each other.

“Take it, Quentin. It is for you.” Durwin threw out a hand toward the white stones and Quentin slowly, reluctantly bent toward them and picked them up.

“Yes, I will take it. I will claim the Zhaligkeer.” So saying he lifted the stones high over his head as if he already had a sword in his hands. “Inchkeith! Let us begin. Time is drawing short. There is a sword to be made!”

But when they looked around, Inchkeith was not to be seen.

Boom! Boom! The sound of the ram against the gates thundered on and on. The peasants who had crowded into Askelon to escape the enemy screamed in terror at every dreadful knell. The outer wards were roiling in panic.

Archers had mounted to the gatehouse barbican and were endeavoring to pick off the Ningaal plying the massive battering ram against the drawn bridge of the castle. Occasionally an arrow would strike home, and an enemy warrior would tumble off the narrow plank they had thrown over the chasm which divided the end of the ramp from the castle; despite this annoyance the Ningaal were not greatly hindered. They were protected by the ironclad roof over their implement, and any unlucky wretch who chanced to show himself too openly was replaced in a trice by another. So the drumming continued on and on and on.

“Call off the archers,” said Theido, gazing down from the battlements. “We may as well save our arrows. They are not going to prevail against that gate. No one ever has.”

“We could pour fire down upon them,” suggested Rudd, wearing a worried expression. “That would get rid of them.”

“And it would also burn down our own gates!” snapped Ronsard irritably.

“I do not think even fire would harm those gates,” mused Theido, shaking his head. “But I could be wrong. Still, it would be better not to take an unnecessary chance. We will wait to see what they try next.

“They cannot tunnel beneath the walls, for they rise out of solid rock and the mountain is stone as well. The postern gate is well-protected, and the maze of walls leading to it prevents the use of a ram such as this. Our archers can keep them at bay there, too. My guess is they must find a way through that gate and that gate alone, for there is no other way into Askelon Castle.”

As he finished speaking, the Ningaal took up their pounding again. Boom! Boom! The timbers of the gate shuddered with each massive blow, but held firm.

Theido turned away from the battlement and Ronsard followed him, after instructing his officers to bring him word if the situation should change in any way.

“Theido, I would talk with you awhile,” he said, falling into step beside his friend. “Let us go inside where we may speak freely.”

They strode to a near barbican and went inside, ascending to the higher platform of the round turret to look out over the plain and the city below. From that lofty vantage they could see the better part of one side of the castle and a portion of a second side. The Ningaal had indeed surrounded the castle on all sides, being most heavily deployed around the main gates and throughout the town. They had set fire to sections of the city, and the smoke swept up in black columns to streak the sky above.