Nimrood had delved deeply into the hidden arts; he had toyed with secrets veiled from the foundations of the world. He had traveled widely, learning the lore of magicians and sorcerers of every race. An insatiable pupil as a young man, he had studied with every occult master until he was as powerful as any who had lived before him. He had gazed upon the heart of the unspeakable and had bartered every human emotion to gain the power he sought, and which still eluded him: the power to bend all men to his will.

When at last he reached his destination, Nimrood circled over Askelon, descending in sweeping spirals. He dived for the tower where Prince Jaspin’s quarters lay, and alighted upon the narrow ledge of an arrow loop high in the wall above Jaspin’s chamber. Prince Jaspin was alone, sitting in his great chair near the fire. Nimrood fluttered to the floor noiselessly, changing back into his human form as he lightly touched down.

“Prince Jaspin,” he said, enjoying the fright he gave the Prince. “You are not expecting anyone, are you?”

“By Zoar! You startled me.” Jaspin threw himself back into his chair, clutching at his heart. “No, by Azrael, I should say not. No one-least of all you, Nimrood. How did you get here?”

“That would not interest you very much, I am afraid. I am not really here at all. You see merely a phantasm, my projected soul-body, or what you will.” The sorcerer crossed the room, and as he passed in front of the fire Jaspin could see the flames shining faintly through his ghostly form. He came to stand directly in front of the astonished Prince.

“What are you doing here? If you will not tell me how you got here, you’ll tell me why, I’ll warrant.”

“Indeed I shall.” The wizard folded his arms upon his breast and glared down upon Prince Jaspin, who sank in bewilderment further into the cushions of his chair. “You let him escape!” he shouted. Jaspin fancied he heard thunder crack in the magician’s voice.

“He had help… friends within the castle. I have had the keeper of the dungeon and the guards beheaded… I have…”

“Silence!” Nimrood hissed. “Do you think spilling the blood of worthless guards will appease me? Will it bring back the prize?”

Nimrood frowned furiously and began to pace before the hearth. Jaspin watched in dread fascination. “He is mine! I want him! Twice you have let him escape!” he cried in anger.

“Twice?” Jaspin asked timidly. “Surely you are mistaken. We have only caught him once.”

“Nimrood mistaken?” The wizard’s eyes flashed fire, but he opened his mouth to a hollow, cackling laugh. “You little know me, Prince Jackal.”

“You fool!” Nimrood shouted, suddenly losing his temper again. “Do you not know? This outlaw Hawk is none other than Lord Theido of Crandall, the greatest military mind of this age.”

“No… I…” the Prince gasped speechless.

“None other. You had him in your clutches when you arrested him upon his return from the wars. You let him slip away then, too.”

“That was different,” Jaspin objected, starting out of his chair.

“You raise your voice against Nimrood?” the wizard cried. The fire in the hearth billowed forth with a roar, spilling a torrent of cinders and sparks into the room. Jaspin felt the heat on his face. “I shall reduce this pile of stone to smoldering ashes, my Prince. Be careful.” Nimrood ran his long slender hands through his wild hair and continued to pace.

“What do you intend to do about it?” he demanded.

“I have set Harriers upon the trail,” said Jaspin sulkily. “We shall have him back before too many days have passed.”

“Hmmm… all right. I see you can use your head when you are pressed to it. But notify me at once when you have caught him. Alive or dead, I want him. You have bought yourself another chance, and maybe saved your crown. But do not fail this time, or it will be your last living act!” the wicked Nimrood sneered.

He then turned and fixed Prince Jaspin with a terrifying scowl. Jaspin felt his limbs grow heavy, losing strength; his heart turned cold within his breast. “There are worse fates than death, I assure you. I know of several-all equally distressing. I reserve them for those who particularly disappoint me. You have one more chance… do not disappoint me.” The sorcerer turned and stepped into the flaming fireplace. The deed brought Jaspin to his feet.

The wizard cackled and appeared to stretch, growing taller and more transparent. Just before he faded from view he said, “Did you know that Ronsard lives? No? Well not for long. I have sent men to capture him.” He laughed again and faded completely into the flames. Prince Jaspin heard only the thin echo of his depraved laughter and then that too was gone.

Jaspin sank once more into the winged chair. His face had taken on the pallor of a dead man.

The fire on Durwin’s hearth had burned low. Quentin slept lightly, curled in a warm corner near the fire. He felt as if he had finally saturated himself with slumber; his mind drifted hazily through shifting dreams. It had been an uneventful day, spent in talk and minute preparations, of which Quentin had but a small part. He had mostly eaten and slept, and cared for the horses, making sure they all had an extra portion in payment for their hard ride the night before.

Theido and Durwin sat near the fire smoking long wooden pipes filled with aromatic leaves which Durwin cultivated. They sat in silence, all talked out. Puffing occasionally and grunting as they turned matters over in their minds.

Alinea slept comfortably stretched upon Durwin’s low wooden bed. She had said little all day, but Quentin thought her eyes spoke eloquently of the turmoil taking place within. Her emerald eyes seemed to weep inside for the anguish she felt for her King. Still, she had put aside her own torment and had found kind words to say to Quentin in that moment when they were together. For that, Quentin had declared to himself, he would gladly give his life for hers at the first opportunity.

Durwin rose at last and stretched. He knocked his pipe gently against the stone mantle and turned to roll himself in his cloak in some further corner, leaving Theido to his thoughts. Quentin, who dozed fitfully, thought he heard Durwin utter a shrill whistle and thought it extremely odd behavior so late at night.

Then he heard it again and stirred himself out of his half-sleep, pushing himself up on his elbows. Durwin had stopped where he stood, listening. Theido, his chair tilted back, resting his long legs against the fireplace, stopped puffing and listened, too.

The whistle sounded again, this time closer. Theido got up and went to the door and slipped out. A cold draft washed over Quentin, rousing him more fully awake. Another signal was heard, this time closer to the cottage; it was Theido replying to the sign.

Alinea was awake now and standing near Durwin. She bent her head and spoke to the hermit, but Quentin could not catch the words. He strained every sense to hear what was taking place outside. All he heard was the crackle and pop of the fire upon the hearth, and his own breathing.

Then he heard the soft, muffled shuffle of snow-dampened footsteps returning to the cottage. Theido ducked in rubbing his arms for warmth. “Voss and his bush-men have a visitor for us,” he explained. “They are bringing him along.”

No sooner had he spoken these words than a soft knock was heard at the door. Theido threw it open and there stood the squat leader of the rangers. Behind him was another man held in tow by several of Voss’ companions.

“Come in, Voss,” said Theido. “Let us see your catch.”

The hefty ranger strode into the cabin and waved his charge forward.

“Trenn!” the Queen cried as her warder tumbled into the light. He swayed uncertainly upon his feet and looked about to topple over, but Voss put out a hand to steady him. Durwin whisked up a stool and sat the man down.