“Yes, ‘tis true. The wound is mortal, brave friend. How may I help you?”

“It is as I feared,” said the knight. His voice was growing weaker. “I have watched you going among the wounded and have seen you comfort men in screaming agony and calm those who have no hope.”

“I do what I can,” said Durwin softly.

“Then tell me what I must know of death, for I am not a religious man. It is said that you can look into the world beyond, sir. Look for me and tell me what you see.”

Durwin, though he already knew what he would tell the young knight, bowed his head and closed his eyes as he placed one hand over the knight’s heart. After a moment he began to speak.

“I see two paths that may be taken-one into darkness and one into light. The dark path is an unhappy one. There is no peace to be found wherever it does lead, and those who travel thereon never find rest or comfort for their soul’s pain. It is a lonely, bitter road.”

“The other way, the road of light, leads to a magnificent city wherein all who come rejoice in the presence of a loving king who reigns forever without end. It is a realm of peace where hardship and death are conquered, and none who abide there know fear anymore.”

“These two paths are open to you, but you must choose now which one you will tread.”

“The choice is easily made, good hermit. I would go to the great city and there pledge my service to the honorable king. If he has need of men such as I, there would I be. But I know not how this may be accomplished, and fear I may yet go wrong.”

“Do not be afraid. Only believe and it will be so. Believe in the king, the King of all kings, and God Most High. He will meet you on the path and lead you himself into his city.”

“Sir, I do want to believe. But your words are strange. They are unlike any words I have ever heard a priest speak. Are you a priest?”

“Yes, fair friend. I am a priest of the king I have told you about. He turns none aside who would come to him; it is a promise he makes to all men.”

“Then I go to him at once.” The knight’s voice was a whisper. “Thank you, good hermit. I shall remember this kindness and shall greet your King for you. Farewell.”

“Farewell, brave sir. We shall meet again.”

At these words the knight closed his eyes and breathed his last. Durwin stood over the young man’s body and marveled at his courage and the firmness of his faith. “The Most High has won a faithful servant this day,” he said to himself. “And none more valiant.”

When Durwin had done all he could for the wounded and dying he returned to the ditch where Selric, Theido, and Ronsard stood in council.

“We have lost many good men,” said Ronsard. “We cannot withstand another attack if they choose to make an end of it.”

“Why do they wait?” wondered Selric. “Perhaps they will not challenge us again.”

“No,” said Theido. “They will come again. They are waiting for-”

“Waiting for Nimrood to bring his foul brood,” said Durwin as he joined them. “They have not yet come. But they are close by.”

“Then Jaspin hoped to win the day for himself without Nimrood?”

“So it is! But now he will be forced to acknowledge Nimrood as his master before all who call him king.”

“It is no better than he deserves,” observed Ronsard. “I believe he will yet rue the day he ever laid eyes upon that sorcerer.”

“This waiting is worse than the fighting. Is there nothing we can do?” asked Selric.

“Yes,” said Durwin. “Pray to the Most High. He is the only one who can save us now.”

The unseen blow caught Quentin as he rolled away, grazing his shoulder and lifting him off his feet. He was flung headlong into the darkness to land sprawling on the floor of the tomb.

He squirmed to his knees in an effort to rise, pulling himself along the edge of the stone bier. But before he could regain his feet he felt something pulling him back, dragging him down with a sinuous weight. Something hard grasped him by the waist. Quentin grabbed at it and touched a smooth, yet rigid surface undulating under his grasp.

A wave of horror and revulsion swept through him as he realized that he was locked in the crushing coils of a gigantic serpent.

A coil shot around his arms, binding them to his sides. Another loop wrapped itself across his chest, and Quentin, struggling feebly to free himself, saw the terrible angular head rise slowly up before his face.

Hideous yellow eyes burned with an unearthly light, regarding him with extreme menace. He could feel the coils tightening around him, squeezing the breath from his body.

His hands scrabbled for a hold on the heavy scales of the serpent’s skin; his nails raked the snaky armor ineffectually. Each breath was a labor fraught with pain now. Very soon he would suffocate. He heard the rasping hiss of the snake as it leered closer, showing cruel double rows of needle-like teeth and two great curving fangs.

Quentin’s mind raced in a frenzy verging on panic. There must be a weapon, he thought. Lifting his eyes, which felt as if they would burst from the pressure of the serpent’s ever-tightening embrace, he chanced to see the shimmer of the King’s sword lying at his side along the slab.

Quentin, growing weaker by the heartbeat, threw himself onto his side beneath the bier. The coils shifted momentarily as he went down. He gulped air and forced his arm free before the relentless coils squeezed again.

Slowly drawing his feet up under him, Quentin placed them against the stone trestle of the King’s bier. With a kick he sent himself tumbling heels over head as the serpent, hissing with a fury, struck.

Quentin heard the monstrous jaws snap shut just above his ear. But he had gained his objective. His free arm was now on top as he lay on his side. He raised it toward the sword.

The serpent noticed the movement. A lashing tail flicked out and lashed a coil around Quentin’s wrist and pulled it down in an iron grip.

In the shimmering glow of the blue radiance Quentin saw the awful outline of the black head rearing again, readying for the killing strike.

Forcing every fiber of muscle to obey, he lifted his hand once more. His fingers ached as he stretched them toward the sword. He felt the serpent squeezing his wrist; his fingers became numb. He closed his eyes and cried out with the effort, feeling that his heart would rend. Then he felt the edge of the bier under his grasp. He held on.

Inch by precious inch he clawed forward, his fingernails splitting as they tore against the stone. He could no longer breathe. His arm shook violently. Dizziness overwhelmed him, but he fought to remain clearheaded.

Then, miraculously, the sword was in his hand. He grasped the cold steel blade and pulled it down. But his strength was gone. He could not raise the sword or strike out with it. Instead, the honed blade lay in his benumbed hand, and he merely looked at it glinting in the darkness as he felt the black mists of death gathering over him.

He wanted to give up, to let go, to step into that peaceful calm that awaited him. He could hear a sound, like the rush of wind or a thousand voices calling out. He had an image of clouds heaving up and then parting. He was moving through the clouds, falling.

The clouds parted and he saw below him the battle lines on the plains of Askelon. There were his friends, dug in behind their ditch. He saw the charge and heard the clash of arms. Then the vision faded and he felt a warmth bathe his limbs as a deep sleepiness overtook him. He felt himself slipping away…

“No!” he shouted, jerking himself back from the brink. “No-o-o!” his voice echoed back to him from the vaulted walls of the tomb.

The sword lay limply in his slack hand. He grasped it and felt the steel cut into the flesh of his fingers. The pain sharpened his mind.