The attackers faltered and cast worried looks from one to another. Before they could think or move there arose a whooshing sound, as of a mighty wind. Instantly the sky burst open. The gloom which hung like death over the field of combat fled as a brilliant ball of white light roared into the heavens.

Then he was there: King Eskevar, sitting astride a great white charger, armor glittering in the blinding light, sword held high above his head.

The sight was too much for Jaspin’s warriors. They cried out in terror and threw down their weapons. Some fell to the ground as if they had been struck down, others backed away stumbling over those behind them.

Jaspin’s commanders sought vainly to rally their cowering soldiers. Another streak tore through the air and another fireball exploded in the sky, transforming the scene to deepest crimson. This decided the wavering forces; the line broke and Jaspin’s army retreated. Thousands fled into the forest, shrieking as they ran.

In moments the plain was in turmoil. The nobles who had traded their loyalty to Jaspin for heavy favors held to their grim task, but the men-at-arms, who had nothing to gain by staying, bolted and ran.

Into this panic the Dragon King descended with his peasant army at his back. In the violent red glare of the fireball these simple peasants with their rakes and hoes were suddenly transformed into armed giants, every one a knight in the eyes of the stricken attackers.

A cry of terror rose from Jaspin’s forces as the Dragon King and his mysterious men-at-arms waded into battle.

Nimrood, watching the contest from a distance, shrieked, “Stop, you dogs! They are only peasants! The victory is ours!” He spurred his horse onto the field in an effort to halt the rout. “Turn! Victory is ours, I say! Turn back and fight!”

The wizard’s screams went unheeded. Pinched between stubborn defiance of Selric’s soldiers and the Dragon King’s fierce vengeance, Jaspin’s army abandoned the field and fled to the woods and the river beyond. Only the nobles and their knights, and Nimrood and his Legion, remained to settle the issue so surely won bare moments before.

The knights and nobles came together and formed a wedge to thunder down upon Selric, hoping to scatter his men before turning their full attention upon Eskevar and his peasants.

The wedge assembled and hurtled down the battlefield to crush the staunch defenders. A great whirring sound went up and suddenly the air prickled with arrows. Voss and his foresters had taken up a position parallel to the flying wedge, where they loosed a stunning volley of arrows from their longbows.

The arrows, thick as hail, rattled off the knight’s armor for the most part, though some by force or luck found a chink or a soft spot and did their work. The poor horses caught some of the missiles aimed for their riders, floundered, and dragged others down with them.

The wedge broke apart and melted away.

Nimrood saw this last attempt to turn the tide of battle falter and knew then that all was lost. He turned his horse and galloped away. He had not run far when a rider, darting out of the nearby wood, intercepted him.

“Halt! wicked one!” cried the cloaked rider.

“Ah, Durwin-failed wizard, failed priest. I should have recognized your childish tricks,” Nimrood hissed as the other’s horse flew up to bar his escape. “Out of my way or I will shrivel you like a piece of rotten fruit! You, I should have disposed of long ago. I should have destroyed you all when I had you in my keep.”

“Save your breath, Nimrood. There is nothing more you can do.”

“No? Watch me!” The necromancer pointed his finger and drew a circle around himself in the air. Instantly fire blazed up to form a wall around him. Durwin toppled to the ground as his frightened mount, eyes showing white with terror, bucked and bounded away.

“Ha, ha, ha!” cackled the sorcerer. “There is much this magician can do. Savor the death your meddling has won!”

Nimrood raised his black stone rod and uttered a quick incantation. From outside the shimmering curtain of flames Durwin saw the sorcerer’s rod begin to glow red as new-forged iron. Then cruel Nimrood lowered the rod and leveled it upon the hermit. “Say farewell to this world, hermit! You saved your friends, now let your friends save you-if any are left alive!” he spat bitterly.

Sparks like lightning bolts hissed from the rod, striking Durwin, who was instantly dashed to the ground. He fought back to his knees as the sorcerer laughed with glee. “That was just a foretaste. Now, for the…” His voice faltered as he lowered the rod a second time to deliver the fatal stroke. From out of nowhere an arrow sang through the air and pierced the foul lord’s arm. The rod tumbled from his hand.

Before Nimrood could turn, another arrow found its mark in his shoulder and he fell from his horse. In two heartbeats Toli was standing over Durwin, notching yet another arrow onto his bowstring.

He raised the bow and bent its long length.

“No! No!” the sorcerer screamed. “Don’t kill me! Ahh!”

But the Jher ignored the necromancer’s pleas. The arrow flashed through the wall of flames and sank into the wizard’s black heart.

The old sorcerer crumpled inward and became a black heap upon the field. He quivered and lay still.

“At last he is gone,” said Durwin, dragging himself to his feet. His mantle smoked where the firebolt had seared into his flesh. Toli offered his arm to the hermit, and together they turned to rejoin their comrades as the clash of battle, now diminishing rapidly, came quickly to an end.

They had not walked ten paces when they heard a great sizzling sound. They turned to where Nimrood lay and saw his huddled black form burst into crackling flame; thick black soot rolled into the air. Then, impossibly, in the sputtering flames, they made out the form of a great black bird rising in the smoke.

A moment later they watched as huge black wings slowly lifted away and flew into the wood. Drifting back to them came the rasping call of a raven.

AT THE demise of Nimrood an uncanny transformation took place. The Legion of the Dead, bearing down upon King Selric and his men with flashing swords and whistling maces, suddenly faltered in their swift course. Their black gauntleted hands went slack at the reins; they swung weakly in the saddle and plummeted to earth in a tempest of dust and horses’ flying hooves. The six black stallions galloped away across the plain, free at last. The terrible Legion lay still upon the earth.

King Selric was the first to approach the six armored bodies as they lay. He crept close, his reddened blade held at the ready. Kneeling down over the first of the fallen knights, he glanced at the wondering faces of his men, now gathered around him, and slowly raised the helmet’s visor.

The empty sockets of a skeleton’s skull stared back at him. Death’s Legion was no more.

For a long time the battlefield lay wrapped in silence; a deep and reverent hush had fallen upon the ground hallowed with the blood of brave men. Then, one by one, they raised their heads to a jingling sound and all beheld a sight that made their hearts soar with a happiness long denied: the Dragon King upon his great charger galloping into their midst, and Alinea his Queen running to meet him.

Eskevar threw off his helmet, Alinea threw aside her shield and blade, and then he caught her up in his strong arms and lifted her off her feet and onto his horse in a long embrace.

The plain reverberated in tremendous, tumultuous, joyous acclaim. Tears of happiness streamed down besmudged faces. The Dragon King and his beautiful Queen were at last reunited. The realm of Mensandor was secure.