“Find my son!” Quentin snapped, his mood raw as the new morning.

Toli wisely ignored the remark. “We should return to the castle for more men; we could cover more ground that way. We need fresh horses and supplies.”

“Do what you will,” replied the King. His jaw was set. “I will continue the search alone.”

“Where will you go?”

“South.”

“Why south? They could easily have turned off the trail anywhere. In the night we would have missed the track.”

“What else am I to do?” shouted Quentin. The others looked at him. He lowered his voice. “I have no better choice.”

“Return with us to Askelon. We will rest and ready ourselves for a proper search. We can send messengers out to all the towns and villages to watch for the brigands. We can-”

“My son has been taken, Toli!” Quentin gestured wildly to the great forest. “I will not return until he is found. I cannot return until he is safe.”

Toli searched the face of the one he knew so well, and yet, at this moment, seemed not to know at all. Something has changed my Kenta, he thought. This is not like him at all. Durwin’s death and the abduction of his son tormented him, twisted him. Yes, but there was something more. Then he saw it-the empty scabbard at Quentin’s side. At once he understood.

“Come back with us, Kenta,” he said softly. “Yesterday we had a chance of finding them quickly. But now… now they have had enough time to cover their trail, to double back-who knows where they may be by now? To find them we will need help, and a leader. You are the King. Who will lead if you will not?”

“Anyone!” snapped Quentin. “Anyone better than I. You lead the search, Toli!” The King’s eyes burned savagely; his mouth contorted into a snarl of hate. “Durwin’s blood is on your head, as is my son’s if anything happens to him. They would be safe now if you had not left them alone. You are to blame for this-it is your fault!”

Toli, speechless, stared at his master and friend. Never had Quentin raised his voice toward him, never had he shown anger toward him. But then, he reflected, the King is right. It is my fault; I am to blame. I should never have left them alone and in danger like that. I am to blame.

“I am sorry,” Toli started. “Sorry-”

“Find my son!” shouted Quentin, his voice shrill. “Find him, or never let me set eyes on you again!”

With that, the Dragon King slashed the reins across the stallion’s neck and wheeled him around. Blazer tossed his handsome white head, and Quentin glared at Toli. “Find him,” he said softly, his tone a threat. “Just find him.”

Toli stood in the road and watched his King ride away. He watched until a bend in the road took him from sight, then went back and mounted Riv, and turned toward Askelon. No one spoke. There was nothing to say.

NIMROOD SAT brooding on a rock, hunched like a bent old root, twisted with age and warped by the dark forces within him. He was waiting for nightfall to undertake the final leg of their journey, for they had reached the eastern edge of the forest and the rest of the way to the temple lay through open ground. He did not want to risk traveling by day; so they waited, restlessly.

Prince Gerin, his young mind alert to all around him, was confident he would not be harmed; and since he appeared in no immediate danger, escape could wait for the right opportunity-if he was not rescued first. He also saw quite plainly that his abductors had little spirit for the task they were about. But the old one, the one with the wild white hair and the face as lined and creased as worn leather, he was one to watch out for.

Who was he? What did he want, and where were they taking him? These questions occupied the young captive as he sat on the ground beneath the tree, two guards with him at all times.

He shifted uneasily, trying to loosen the bonds on his arms.

One of the guards eyed him suspiciously, glared, but did not say anything.

When my father comes for me, thought Gerin, you will be very sorry. I hope he comes soon; I am going to miss the rest of the hunt otherwise.

There was no doubt in the young Prince’s mind that the King would come for him, would rescue him. All he had to do was wait. There came a sound in the wood: someone approaching quickly on foot, and noisily with much rustling of branches and cracking of twigs underfoot. Nimrood jumped up, his voice a harsh whisper. “We are found! Draw your weapons!”

The men jumped up and drew their blades, but before anyone had a chance to position themselves for the attack, the intruder stumbled into camp. “What!” he said, startled. “No, wait!” He fell back and landed on his rump.

“You!” said Nimrood. The man was one of the two left behind to guard their escape.

He jumped up, glancing around quickly with frightened eyes. “I was not followed!” he cried. “Put away your swords!”

“You better not have been followed, or I will feed you piecemeal to the birds. Where is your friend?” Nimrood demanded, shoving aside the others.

“Dead-” The man cast a terrified look behind him, as if expecting his own death to come charging out of the woods at any moment.

“How?” Nimrood stood with hands on his hips, eyes boring into the wretch before him.

“He found us on the road. He guessed all.”

“Who found you?”

The King! He knew all about us!”

“Bah!” Nimrood’s countenance became threatening. The guard quaked with fear. “You said too much!”

“No, by all the gods, I swear it! We told him nothing. He knew-I don’t know how he knew, but he did. We did not have a chance.”

“How many were with him?”

“His Majesty-the King-was alone. I hid in the bushes in case we were forced to attack him.”

“And?” Nimrood stepped closer. The guard grimaced and hurried on with his story.

“Carlin pretended to be a pilgrim, but the King knew different. We tried to put him off, but-”

“You were two against one. What happened?”

The man’s eyes rolled with terror. “That sword of his-the Shining One! No man-no army is a match for that! You should have seen it flash. The flames! It blinded us, and I threw my hands over my eyes. When I looked, Carlin was dead. That sword…”

Nimrood’s demeanor changed abruptly; his tone became coaxing. “Ah, yes, I see. You did right to come here with the news. Yes. But tell me”-he placed a pale hand on the man’s shoulder-“tell me more concerning that sword. The King’s sword-what did you call it?”

“The Shining One-everyone knows about it. It is enchanted.”

“Is it? How so?” Nimrood smiled a thin, sly, snaky smile. “I do not seem to recall anything about an enchanted sword. But then, I have been long away from Mensandor. Tell me more about it.”

Eagerly the men told Nimrood about Zhaligkeer, the King’s wonderful sword-about its burning brightness, about the magic mines wherein it was forged, about its strange and terrible powers. They told about how Quentin, still a young man, had come riding out of the mountains with the sword and, by his hand alone, smashed the invasion of the horrible Nin and turned certain defeat into resounding victory, when the Shining One quenched the fire of the Wolf Star.

Legends concerning the enchanted sword, and the King who wielded it, had already grown large in the land, and increased with every passing year. It was possessed of a holy power, they said. It was enchanted by a god-the one called Most High. Its flame was the symbol of the god’s presence with the King, and more.

Nimrood listened patiently to the various stories about the sword, letting the temple guards tell him what they knew. All the time the old sorcerer was thinking to himself, Yes, this enchanted sword is just the thing. “What you say is very interesting,” he said at length. “Yes, very interesting.” He turned to the man who had just joined them. “Do you have anything else to tell me?”