“Ah, the many shapes of evil,” said Elder Patur. “Darkness is most inventive in its combat with the light.”
“But powerless in the end,” added Elder Clemore.
“Yes, as long as men refuse to give in to it,” said Elder Jollen.
“The battle rages on all sides,” said Patur, “and men are drawn into the melee whether they will or no. I see that the battle has come once more to Askelon and to the King. But it is ever thus-darkness fears the places where light burns the brightest, and these the darkness would destroy.”
“What can be done?” asked Bria. Esme wondered the same thing.
“That is the responsibility of the Most High,” replied Clemore. “We will seek his guidance.”
“Through prayer?”
“Yes, through prayer,” said Patur. “We will hold a prayer vigil for Quentin and young Gerin, Toli, and the others. Concerning Durwin, though we mourn his passing, we will rejoice in his entrance to the kingdom of the Most High, and pray that his reward is great. We will begin at once.”
With that the men joined hands with the women and began to pray. Esme, who had never prayed in this fashion, felt awkward at first, but relaxed and turned her mind to the prayers of the Elders. As she listened, she felt a moving within her; her heart quickened, responding to the words, but also to something more: a presence unseen, but distinct. It was as if the Most High had come to sit among them, entering into their prayer.
Esme’s scalp prickled at the thought-a god who walks among his people! How strange. Gods were remote, disinterested, living in their mountains or in their temples, served by man, but never serving, as likely to harm as to help if it pleased them.
At that moment she gave herself to the God Most High, saying to herself, “I know not of your ways as others here; but, Most High, if you will receive me I will follow you. For I, too, would learn of you and serve you.”
In response Esme felt a slight rising sensation, as if her soul were being lifted up. By this she knew that her prayer had been heard and accepted. She gripped the hand on either side of her more tightly, and felt life begin to trickle through her heart once more, after being dried up for so long.
Pym stood in the darkness of the King’s chamber. He could hear him breathing slowly, rhythmically, like an animal in its lair. Should he speak? he wondered. Should he wait until addressed?
The moment stretched to an awkward length and still the King said nothing. Pym cleared his throat hesitantly. He waited.
“Well?” asked a voice out of the darkness. The voice rasped like the voice of an old man. “What do you want?”
“I’ve come…” began Pym.
But before he could continue the King shouted at him, “I do not care why you have come! Go away and leave me!”
The tinker saw the hulking form before him suddenly lurch to its feet and stagger toward him. He took a frightened step back. “Sire, I meant no harm. I meant-”
“Get out of here! Can you not see I want to be left alone?”
Pym made a move toward the door.
“No! Wait! You have news of my son?” The Dragon King asked. He came near and gripped the tinker by his shoulders, blowing his breath in the man’s face.
Pym recoiled from the grasp and from the King’s foul breath. “Nay! I have no sech news,” Pym managed to stammer.
“Ach!” cried the King, and released him with a shove that sent flying.
Pym slammed against the door and stayed there, petrified. Surely the King would not kill him, would he?”
“What is it?” spat the King savagely. “Well? Tell me! Have you lost your tongue?”
Before Pym could reply, there came a hasty knock behind him and the door was shoved open, sending the tinker sprawling.
“Sire! Come quickly. Something is happening! Trouble, Your Majesty. Come quickly.”
In the light from the open door Pym saw the King-face as gray as ashes, dark circles under his eyes, cheeks sunken and hollow. He looked like a wraith who had come back from the grave, not a flesh-and-bone man with warm blood in his veins. Was this the great Dragon King?
Without a second glance, the King swept by him and out the door. Pym scrambled to his feet and peered through the doorway. There were other voices now ringing down the corridors. Pym paid them no attention; his only thought was to leave at once and get as far away as possible before the King came back and found him still there.
He crept out of the chamber and back along the now-deserted passageways of the castle, coming at length to the entrance. He stepped out into a cool night, bright with stars. Tip lay waiting for him with head on paws.
“It’s home fer we ‘uns, Tipper,” said Pym, still shaken by what had happened to him. Tip wagged her tail “Back t’ the Gray Goose we go right enough.”
He cast a last look behind him and then made his way across the inner ward yard and through the gate into the outer ward yard and toward the castle gatehouse. The great gates were closed, but a keeper stood near the smaller door, which was still open within the larger.
Pym said nothing, but hurried on by, through the gatehouse tunnel, lit with torchlight, and onto the huge drawbridge. Upon reaching the ramp he slowed, feeling like a malefactor escaped from the castle dungeons to freedom. He walked along the streets and as he turned toward the inn heard a rumbling like the sound of distant thunder carried on the wind. He stopped and listened.
A group of men came around the corner-a dozen or more, shouting loudly and carrying oily, smoking torches. They brushed by him in the narrow street, hurrying away. One look at their wild, twisted faces, and Pym knew that they meant no one any good.
He shivered as he watched the men disappear down a side street. Shouts echoed in the empty streets afar off. Pym shook his head dismally. “Aye, there be trouble, Tip. Master Oswald spoke aright. Come along, old girl. ‘Tis no night fer we ‘uns to be about.” They hurried back to the Gray Goose. In the distance the rumbling could still be heard intermittently; not thunder now, but the drums of battle just before the inevitable clash.
THIRTY-ONE
BY THE time Theido reached the site with his small force of knights, the destruction was almost complete. Three walls had been toppled, and the fourth was wobbling under the stress of ropes and poles in the hands of scores of frenzied townspeople.
“My lord, we have come too late,” said the knight at Theido’s right hand. His face flickered in the blaze of torchlight around them. “Do you want us to disperse them?”
Theido watched the men screaming and leaping to their task, obviously caught in the rage of destruction. At that moment the upper layer of stones on the last wall gave way and tumbled to the earth-thudding with such force that the ground shook and reverberated like a drum.
“No, not yet,” replied Theido. “Someone could get hurt. I do not want anyone killed; the damage is already done.”
“We should do something,” the knight insisted. “The King’s Temple…” His voice trailed off as he gestured hopelessly to the ruin.
“What would you have us do?” snapped Theido angrily. “The deed is done! Broken heads will not save anything. Look at them out there-the whole town has gone mad!” Theido stared into the mob. Ropes snaked out through the air, poles thrust against stone, shouts became a growling chant as another whole section of the wall caved in. A cheer went up. It was the cry of a beast.
Theido said wearily, “Send the men around the perimeter to ring them in. When it is done, disperse them. We will not have this insanity spread. Do not hesitate to use the flat of your swords. But I want no unnecessary hurt done to anyone-is that understood?” The knight nodded. “See to it, then. I am returning at once to the castle.”
From the high battlements Quentin watched the assault on his new temple in mute agony. The hill on which the temple was being constructed blazed with torchlight, and he could hear the shouts of the townspeople clearly in the night air, though the building site lay some distance away from the castle. He saw the churning mass around the walls, and he saw the stones of his great temple fall.