QUENTIN MET Toli in the stables-the grouping of low stone structures Toli had turned to the purpose of breeding horses. In his time at Dekra the Jher had become an excellent trainer and breeder of fine horses. In fact, with the help of Eskevar’s stablemaster, he was developing a remarkable strain of animals which were a cross between the heavier warhorses, such as Balder, and lighter, more fleet racing stock which were the pride of Pelagia. The resulting breed would possess strength and stamina enough for battle, but would also have the ability to run fast and far without tiring.

Quentin passed under the wide stone arch and came to stand before Balder’s stall. The old warhorse whinnied softly when he saw his master approaching. Quentin held out his hand and patted the horse’s soft muzzle and stroked the bulging jaw.

“You may stay here this time, old boy. Take care of him, Wilton,” he called over his shoulder to the youngster who helped Toli. “Give him an extra carrot now and then.” Then patting the horse’s white-starred forehead he said, “We will go for a long ride when I come back.”

The stables smelled of sweet fennel and straw and the warm bodies of the horses. The smell reminded Quentin of traveling, and he reflected that he was indeed anxious to be off. He crossed to where Toli stood checking their mounts’ tack and gear.

“Good morning, Kenta. I was just about to come and wake you.”

“As you see I am ready to go; I did not sleep much of the night. Is all prepared?” He turned to slap a milk-white stallion on the shoulder. “Ho, there, Blazer! Are you anxious to stretch those long legs of yours?” The horse tossed its flowing mane and rolled a blue-black eye at Quentin as if to say, “Away! Let us be gone!”

“I have only to charge Wilton with some final instructions,” remarked Toli, “then we shall go.”

It amused Quentin that Toli, who considered himself Quentin’s servant-for-life, was also an object of devotion among the Curatak. The gentle Jher enjoyed the services of several helpers, whom he treated as well as any master treated a devoted servant. The simple fact was that Toli was regarded as much a prince as was Quentin; and in the city where all men were servants of one another, this was the highest honor.

Toli returned and took the reins of both horses and led them out into the quiet streets. Quentin followed at Toli’s right hand and listened to the clop of the horses’ hooves upon the cobbled stones of the ancient streets. In the east the sky shone with a violet haze which lightened into a golden-red hue as the sun rose higher.

Toli sniffed the air and announced, “The wind is from the west over the sea. We will have good weather for our journey.”

“Good. I am hoping to be in Askelon before the new moon. We should be able to manage that, aye?”

“It is possible. With good horses and the King’s road restored through Pelgrin…”

“We have horses with wings, my friend. And Eskevar’s road is now complete as far as the Arvin. We shall fly indeed.”

They reached the gates of the city and let themselves out. The gates were seldom tended, since Dekra had no fear of intrusion and no real need of defense.

At the small door which opened within the larger, Quentin paused and took a long last look upon the city he loved. The red stone glowed with the rosy hue of the rising sun. Towers and spires swept majestically into the clear, cool morning air, gleaming and glittering like radiant crystal.

The ordinary sounds of the city waking to life echoed out into the empty streets: a dog barked, a door opened and closed. Behind him Blazer and Riv, Toli’s sleek black mount, shook their bridles, impatient to be moving along. Quentin raised an arm in farewell to Dekra and then turned to his horse.

“It is time for speed,” he called as he swung himself up into the saddle. “On, Blazer!” The horse lifted his forelegs off the ground, gave a little kick and leapt ahead to the trail.

Quentin pushed an eager course through the low hills and into the wretched marshlands. They planned to hold north as far as Malmarby, thus skirting the boggy wasteland as much as possible. At Malmarby they would hire a boat to cross the inlet and swing along the shore west past Celbercor’s Wall. Then the trail would become easier. They would make for the Arvin River where it came spilling clear and cold out of the Fiskills and ride through the wild foothills above Narramoor along the King’s new road, and speed along through Pelgrin to Askelon.

The days on the trail were uneventful. Game was plentiful and, thanks to Toli’s skill as a hunter, they never lacked for anything the hills could provide.

They arrived at Malmarby village one bright morning, picking the wider path toward the town out of the maze of bogs and wetlands which surrounded it.

As they approached the village, Toli stiffened in the saddle and reined his horse to a halt. Quentin mirrored his actions, wondering what had alarmed his friend.

“What is it? What do you see?”

“Something is amiss in the village yonder. I feel it.”

“It looks peaceful enough. But let us go with caution.”

They paced the horses slowly ahead, and both watched the thickets and dense shrubbery which lined the path for any signal that might confirm Toli’s apprehension.

They saw no one and heard nothing, until just before reaching the village itself. Quentin stopped his horse and stood in the saddle, looking around. The muddy track which served as Malmarby’s main street was vacant. No living thing stirred among the rough wooden houses; the town lay silent as a tomb.

“There does not appear to be anyone around. I wonder where…”

He had not finished speaking when four men sprang out of the nearest thicket and grabbed the horses’ bridles. Two of the men were armed with spears and the others with short swords. All appeared very frightened, their faces grim with worry and pale from fear.

It was the look upon these sorry faces which made Quentin hold his hand. “Stay, Toli! We need not fear these men, I think.” Quentin spoke loudly and calmly so that their would-be attackers would know that they intended no harm.

There was a rustle in the thicket and another man stepped out, or rather fell, into the road. Quentin recognized the thin, careworn face of the village counselor.

“Good morning, Counselor. Is this the way you treat strangers nowadays? Or perhaps you wished to invite us to breakfast.”

The thin, bald man blinked and rushed forward, squinting at the travelers with his one good eye.

“Quentin? Step back, men, it is the Prince! Let them go!” Quentin smiled at the appellation. He was not the Prince, but his legend had so grown among the simple people of Mensandor that be held that lofty position in their esteem. So they conferred upon him the highest title they could presume; to them he was, quite simply, the Prince.

“Yes, it is Quentin. But tell me, Milan, what bodes this reception? And where are your townspeople? The village looks deserted.”

“I’m sorry, good Sir. We meant you no harm.” The village chief looked heartbroken. He wrung his hands over each other as he spoke, as if he feared some fierce retribution. “It’s just that… well, we cannot be too careful these days. There have been stories of evil deeds-we thought it best to post a watch on the road.”

“Robbers?” Quentin asked.

Milan ignored the question and asked one of his own. “You yourself have seen nothing?”

“No, nothing.”

Quentin shrugged and looked at Toli. Toli studied the faces of the men before them and remained silent.

“Well, perhaps our fears are unfounded. Will you stay with us?”

“No, not this time. If we may have the use of one of your excellent boats we will put off directly. We are going to Askelon as quickly as may be.”

The town counselor fixed Quentin with a strange, knowing look and turned away. “Go on ahead and tell the town. The way is clear, there is nothing to fear,” he called to one of the men. Then to Quentin he added, “The boat is yours. You may take mine; it is the largest by far. My son will go with you.”