Quentin glanced down and saw his friends Theido and Ronsard kneeling over the body of Eskevar. He read the sadness in their eyes and knew the Dragon King was dead.
Without a word Quentin wheeled Blazer around and leaped after the fleeing Ningaal. An unspeakable grief seized his mind and Quentin had no thought but to drive the hated enemy, before him, to ride until he could ride no more, to the sea and beyond. In his mindless grief he drove straight toward Nin the Destroyer and his fifty thousand panic-stricken warriors. The Ningaal parted before the invincible knight with the flaming sword, as waves before the tempest.
Quentin saw nothing distinctly; it was as if he had entered a dream. Pale shapes moved before him, rolling away on either side like clouds; the night sky was filled with a burning white light. Then there was a darkness before him which rose up in a seething mass.
Zhaligkeer flashed in his hand. Quentin raised himself in the saddle and flung the sword skyward with a mighty shout. The sword spun in the air, and it seemed that as it reached the apex of its arc it suddenly exploded with a blinding crack that showered tongues of fire all around.
The sky went white, and every man threw his hands before his face to save his eyes. None dared look upon the terrible splendor of the moment. It seemed to Quentin that he entered his vision, for he was once more the knight standing upon a darkling plain wearing the shining armor and lofting a blazing sword which burned into the heart of the darkness gathered round about.
There was a shudder in the air, and he felt the fire rush through him. Though the lightning danced blinding waves around him, he opened his eyes and saw the darkness roll away, revealing a city splendid and beautiful, shimmering in the light as if carved of fine gold and gems. The exquisite sight brought Quentin to his knees.
He threw his hands before his face to blot out the vision, and the tears came rising up as from a spring. In that moment he felt in his inmost soul the hand of the Most High God upon him.
When Quentin raised his head, he was alone and the night was dark. The Wolf Star had disappeared in a great flash. Some said that the Shining One had reached up into the sky and smote the star and extinguished it, for it vanished in the same instant that Quentin had thrown the sword.
Zhaligkeer had fallen to earth and was found buried to the hilt in the obscene body of the Immortal Nin. The Conqueror of Kings lay dead, pinned to the ground like a serpent. His unhappy minions, witnessing the swift miracle of their cruel lord’s death, fled screaming over the plain. Their pitiful cries filled the night as they sought to escape the justice that would soon overtake them. The warlords of Nin fell upon their swords and joined their loathsome sovereign in his well-deserved fate.
Quentin returned to the place where Eskevar lay. Together with Theido and Ronsard and the lords and knights of Mensandor, he picked up the body of the King and, lifting it upon his shoulders, bore it away to Askelon.
FIFTY-SIX
THE FUNERAL of the Dragon King lasted three days and his mourning continued for thirty. During this time Wertwin and the armies of Ameronis, Lupollen and the others arrived-greatly saddened and contrite, for news of the King’s death had overtaken them on the way. They were sent in pursuit of the Ningaal who were fleeing back along the Arvin toward the sea where their ships still waited. The lords slew many of the enemy in their flight, and the rest were driven into the sea at lance point.
Eskevar’s body was taken at once to the castle, where it was placed upon his own bed. Durwin, aided by Biorkis, came to minister to the body, washing it and composing it for entombment. Inchkeith worked long hours over the King’s armor, pounding out the dents inflicted upon it in the last battle, and shining it bright as new. Queen Alinea herself dressed her husband in his finest garments; Bria and Esme adorned him with his most treasured jewels. And then he was taken to the great hall, where he was solemnly laid upon his bier.
The King’s body lay in the great hall for two days, guarded by a sorrowful contingent of knights and nobles throughout the day and night while a steady procession of tearful subjects filed past the litter. The miserable wailing of the peasants filled the ward yards, and afflicted citizens roamed the streets of the town, inconsolable in their grief. The great Dragon King had passed; no one had ever thought to see that dark day.
Quentin remained in his chamber and would see no one. He did not even venture to the battlements to watch the funeral pyres of all the brave dead of the King’s proud army as they burned upon the plain. He held himself to blame for the King’s death, reasoning that if he had arrived but a few heartbeats sooner Eskevar would still be alive. Only Toli was allowed in to serve his master. But Quentin’s needs were few, for he would neither eat nor sleep, but sat slumped in a chair before the darkened, empty hearth.
At midnight on the second day Quentin bestirred himself and crept quietly to the great hall. The mourners had gone, and no one lingered in the hall except the ten knights standing as statues of stone around the body. Torches burned on standards at the four corners of the bier, casting a soft, hazy light over the pall. Quentin moved close, mounting the flower-strewn platform to kneel beside the body.
In the lambent glow the King’s features were relaxed and calm; except for the unnatural stillness, he might have been asleep. Gone were the traces of the illness which had so wasted his noble frame.
Gone, too, were the lines of care and concern which had creased his visage of late. The years seemed to have been rolled away, and Quentin saw a younger Eskevar than he had known. His hair was dark and swept back over his temples. The high forehead was smooth, the nose straight and well-formed above a firm but not ungentle mouth. The hard jut of the jaw had been softened, revealing a man at peace within himself, and the deeply cleft chin spoke of the unflinching purpose of the man who had been.
The King wore his armor and held his helm nestled under his left arm. His sword lay upon his chest, where it was held at the hilt in his right hand. The writhing dragon device on the King’s breastplate seemed to twist and wink in the firelight. A cloak of royal blue edged in silver and gold was fastened at the throat by a golden chain and the King’s favorite dragon brooch. Eskevar appeared ready to leap to his feet and ride once more to the trumpet’s call.
Quentin bowed his head, and hot tears fell upon the bier. He recalled so vividly the time when he had seen his King just so, held in the evil Nimrood’s spell. Then, by an impossible miracle, the necromancer’s enchantment had been broken and the Dragon King freed to live again. But it was a far more powerful sorcery that embraced the King now, one that claimed all men in the end and from which there was no release.
Quentin heard a soft step behind him, and he felt a light touch on his shoulder. He glanced up to see Queen Alinea, dressed all in sable, looking down on him, her green eyes deep pools of sorrow, but shining more beautifully for the compassion with which she regarded him.
“I have sought you these past two days, my son.” The Queen spoke softly, and the tone eased Quentin’s troubled heart. He did not speak.
“You must not blame yourself, for in the end he chose his own course, as he ever did. It was his wish to die serving the kingdom he loved. And of all his loves this one, his love for his realm, claimed his highest devotion. He was a king first and a man only second.”
“Thank you for your words, my Lady. They do soothe me well. I will not blame myself, though I did at first. I know now that his course was set for him long ago. He would not bend to another.”