“You, Quentin?” Biorkis asked in amazement; the others whispered behind their hands. “You would go?”

THE MIGHTY horse carried his insignificant rider with tireless ease. Trained in the hard school of combat, Balder was used to bearing the weight of grown men in full armor upon his broad back. Quentin, clinging like a cold leaf to the magnificent animal’s neck, was scarcely a burden at all.

The day was young and although still overcast as on the day previous, the low cloud covering showed signs of breaking up before long. The wind had freshened, sending whirling white clouds across the tops of the drifts with every fitful gust. Each blast sent a shiver along Quentin’s ribs. He wondered whether he would ever be warm again. But he did not greatly mind the discomfort, for at last the change long foretold was in motion. Where it would lead, what it would mean, he did not know. For the present he was caught up in the adventure of it, yet he kept his eyes sharp to any omen which might present itself.

Nothing presented itself to his gaze except a vast expanse of white, unbroken except by irregular dark lumps mushrooming out of the snow. These were the peasant huts, and sometimes he saw a face peer at him from around the corner of a doorpost, or a timid wave acknowledged his presence as a bent form hobbled through the snow under a burden of firewood.

In his seven years’ cloister within the temple, the land, it seemed to Quentin, had changed little. Yet it had changed.

There was something unmistakable in the eyes of the peasants he met, something which struck him fresh each time he saw it. Was it fear?

The thought gave him an uneasy feeling. Was something loose in the land which caused these simple people to be afraid?

The great chestnut warhorse plodded steadily on, his hooves silenced by the cushion of snow. Billows of steam spouted from the animal’s nostrils as its hot breath touched the icy air. Quentin turned his thoughts back on the brief procession of events which had placed him in the saddle of Ronsard, the King’s knight.

There had been a long, intemperate discussion following his spontaneous offer to assist the knight in accomplishing his mission. Everyone concerned-Biorkis, Izash, the other priests, and even the knight himself-had been against it. And still, when all the facts were laid end to end, there was no better plan. Quentin would go at once allowing only a day’s rest and feeding for the horse. The animal had been found patiently standing in the outer courtyard of the temple where his master had left him before climbing and then collapsing upon the outer steps. It was the horse’s whinny to his fallen rider that had alerted the temple guards who then discovered the wounded, half-frozen knight.

Reluctantly, Biorkis had given his approval to the enterprise, for although his young age was against him, Quentin was the only logical choice. He was merely an acolyte, not a priest, as yet not having taken his vows or completed his initiation-a process which normally encompassed twenty years or more. Quentin had completed only seven years of instruction. At fifteen he still had years of study ahead of him; others his own age were already novitiates. The road to becoming a priest was a long one; most began it while still small children. Quentin, although dedicated to his calling at age eight, had come to it late.

Now that career was behind him. Never again would he be allowed to return to the temple, except as a dutiful worshipper begging some boon from the god. Ariel was a jealous god; once you had turned away he knew you no more. Only by distinguishing himself in some act of great heroism could Quentin hope to regain the god’s favor. That he vowed he would do-just as soon as he could.

The journey from Narramoor, the holy city, to Askelon, the King’s stronghold, was a matter of two days by horse. The temple, according to the most ancient customs of the realm of Mensandor, was built in the high foothills overlooking the land it sheltered with its prayers. In the spring and early summer pilgrims came from all over the country to ask prayers for good crops and healthy livestock. Each town and village also had a small temple or prayerhouse which was presided over by one or more priests depending upon the need, but most worshippers preferred to make the pilgrimage to the High Temple at least once a year, more often if it could be arranged.

The road, winding down from the steep hills beneath the jagged old mountains of the Fiskill, was not overwide but it was well maintained-at least it had been up to the time of the King’s departure. Quentin remembered nothing of the King’s leave-taking, being but a babe in arms at the time. But, in the years since, he had heard retold the vivid accounts of the splendor of that parting.

The King, dressed in full battle regalia emblazoned with the royal insignia-a terrible, twisting red dragon-had led his loyal warriors out through the giant gates of his castle. Amidst a thousand fluttering banners and the call of a thousand trumpets from the high battlements, the King’s army marched through streets lined with cheering crowds and out onto the plains of Askelon. It was said the procession lasted half a day, so many men followed in his train.

The entourage had traveled to Hinsen-by-the-sea, or Hinsen-by as it was usually known, had boarded sturdy warships awaiting them in Hinsen harbor, and had sailed forth. The ships were provided by King Selric of the small island country of Drin, whose people were known to produce the world’s greatest sailors.

Other kings from other lands joined them, swelling their forces beyond anything ever before seen or imagined. They were going to meet the barbaric Urd, a race of creatures, one scarcely dared to call them human, so savage, so brutal their very existence imperiled all other men. The Urd, united under their king Gorr, had risen in defiance of all civilized order vowing to extinguish or make slaves of other nations. They would rule the world.

The twelve kings of the civilized nations had met and declared war upon Gorr, sailing to meet and join battle with him in his own lands before the evil lord had time to mass his army against them in theirs.

The fighting had begun in early spring and by summer it looked as though the campaign would conclude before winter set in, so successful were the united kings’ first encounters. The wily Gorr, seeing his warriors melt before the terrible onslaught, retreated to his massive walled fortress, Golgor. There the stubborn renegade dug in, establishing himself with a strength and fervor no one could have foretold. From Golgor the raving giant taunted the valiant forces of the kings; his raiding panics, though often beaten back with heavy losses, continually wore down their defenses. Winter found the enemies deadlocked.

The war, so easily won in the spring, dragged on and on. Years passed and the war continued. Thousands of men died in that hideous country never to see friends or loved ones again. Several of the kings pulled out in the seventh year, returning home with the tattered remains of their once-proud armies. But Eskevar, Selric, Brandon, Calwitha, and Troen fought on.

For all Quentin knew they fought on still.

Quentin raised his eyes to the horizon. He could see, it seemed, forever; the land fell away on every side unobscured except for the occasional looming shape of a gigantic boulder or jutting escarpment which rose abruptly at intervals throughout the hills. But the slim rider was leaving the hills behind, and the dark line of the forest drew ever nearer as if by magic.

Askelon, his destination, stood on the far side of the forest. Beyond that to the west lay the flatlands and the farming towns, and cities of the plains, Bellavee being chief among these.