The yard fell silent all around. Not even the wind stirred the leaves of the trees lining the wall-trees into whose branches the curious had climbed to better see what would take place.

They waited.

Toli glanced down at Prince Gerin, standing beside him. He nodded as if to say, “Courage; he will come.” The boy returned it with one of his own which replied, “I know, and I am not afraid.”

The clouds rolled overhead, angry and swollen, hard and black as smoked amber, flying away on swift storm wings. An unnatural twilight descended over the temple yard, as if the sun had withdrawn and refused to shed its warmth and light on the proceedings.

Still, they waited.

At last Nimrood could stand it no longer. “There is no more time. It is midday, and the King is not here. He is not coming. Bring the prisoners.”

The guards looked at one another and hesitated.

“Bring them!” shouted Nimrood, his voice shrill. The High Priest, shaking visibly now, nodded and turned his face away. The guards thrust the captives down the steps with their weapons.

Toli started forward, lifted his foot, and then stumbled, rolling down the steps. “Run!” he shouted to the Prince as he went down. Young Gerin leaped down the steps and dashed forward into the crowd.

“Stop him!” roared Nimrood. “Bring him back!”

Before the knights standing with the Queen could lift a hand, one of the temple guards whirled around and seized the Prince by the nape of the neck, hauling the kicking lad off his feet.

“Gerin!” cried the Queen. “Gerin!” She struggled forward, thrusting out her hands in a desperate attempt to reach him, but was stopped by the lance of the remaining guard. “My son!”

Toli was hauled to his feet and shoved forward. “A very clumsy effort for a nimble Jher,” clucked Nimrood. “For your trouble you will be allowed to witness the sacrifice of the boy. I had planned it the other way around.”

With that, Nimrood swooped down and lifted the lad onto the altar, where he fought to free himself. One guard held his feet and another pulled his bound hands over his head. Toli shouted and dove toward the altar, but the guards around him grabbed his arms and held him fast.

“No!” shrieked the boy’s mother, her features twisted in horror. Esme threw her arms around the Queen and held her tightly.

“The knife,” said Nimrood to the High Priest. “Take up your dagger.”

“DAGGER?” HIGH Priest Pluell’s face blanched even whiter than before. He patted his robes absently. “I seem to have misplaced my dagger. I do not have it with me.”

Nimrood smiled maliciously. “I thought you might have forgotten yours-conveniently, too, I might add. So I brought my own.” He withdrew a long thin poniard from beneath his robe and, taking the High Priest’s hand, placed the knife in it. “Now then, High Priest. Do your duty!”

Pluell, eyes glazed and the sweat of fear glistening slick on his brow, turned a stricken countenance upon the Queen, whose face was hidden in her hands, and upon his evil accomplice, who smiled thinly and nodded. “Do it!” Nimrood croaked, his eyes sparkling with glee.

The dagger shook in the High Priest’s hand, but he turned to where the young Prince lay on the altar and raised his arm above the boy’s heart. Gerin closed his eyes and drew his mouth into a tight pucker so that he would not cry out.

The knife hung in the air, hesitated, and-

“Stop! The King is here! Wait! The Dragon King is coming!”

With a sigh the air rushed through the High Priest’s teeth; his arm wavered and dropped to his side, and he fell back away from the altar.

Across the yard there came the sound of horses and men pounding up the winding road below the temple, as well as the voices of those outside the temple walls who shouted and hailed the King as he came.

In a moment the crowd parted, and the King’s stallion came clattering into the yard. Quentin reined Blazer to a halt, the courser’s hooves striking sparks from the paving stones, and threw himself from the saddle.

He advanced toward the temple as those with him-Theido and Ronsard, Lord Edfrith, and a host of knights and men-came pounding from behind into the already overcrowded yard. The people drew away from the King, giving him wide berth as he approached the altar.

“I have brought the ransom,” Quentin called out boldly. “Let my son go!” He directed this challenge at the High Priest, who drew back among the other priests at the edge of the temple steps.

“That will not do, my King,” replied Nimrood coolly.

Quentin turned to face him across the distance between them. “Who are you?” He stepped closer, his eyes on the old man’s face, struggling to read some recognition there. “Do I know you?”

“We have never met,” the old man replied. “But I think you know me.”

“I ask again. Who are you?”

“A name? Very well, I shall give it. You see before you none other than Nimrood, known as the Necromancer once long ago, before my power was shorn from me.”

“Nimrood!” It took all Quentin’s strength not to stagger backward as the knowledge rocked him to the core. “You rise from the dust of death like one of your ghastly creations!”

“Yes, and I have come to claim my revenge.” He stepped behind the altar and motioned to the guards holding the boy to remove him. “Your sword, proud King, the Shining One-that was to be the ransom. Where is it?”

Quentin drew the sword; it whispered as it slid from the scabbard. He held it up for all to see and started for the altar.

Nimrood held up a hand. “Not like that!” he screamed. Quentin halted. “On your knees! I want all your subjects to see you bow to me. I want you to acknowledge me before all these witnesses.”

Quentin advanced two more steps and came to the altar. “On your knees, proud King!”

“Never!” shouted Quentin. “You ask for the sword; here it is. You will get nothing more from me.”

“Bow to me on your knees, or the boy dies!” Nimrood whirled around and snatched the dagger out of the startled High Priest’s hand. In a flash the knife blade lay against the young boy’s throat “Kneel, great King, or lose your son and heir.” The rasping voice dripped venom.

Quentin, every fiber of his being rebelling at the act, dropped slowly to one knee. He glared frightfully at Nimrood, who smiled wickedly as he held the knife against the Prince’s neck. The people were silent as death watching the humiliation of their King.

“Now the sword,” said Nimrood, breaking the unearthly silence. “Lay it on the altar.” His words stabbed like dagger points, penetrating to the furthest reaches of the temple yard so that every man there heard plainly what was said.

The Dragon King raised the sword once more and held it by the hilt. This sword, he thought, is the Shining One promised me in the dream long ago, and given to me by the hand of the Most High. It is the sword of the Most High himself; I cannot give it up to Nimrood. I cannot lay it upon that altar; to do so would be an act of worship to that depraved monster. I will not forsake the true God-not to save my life or the life of my son.

Quentin turned the sword in his hand and looked at it, and then at Nimrood. He rose to his feet once more.

“On your knees!” screamed Nimrood. “Bow down to me!”

Quentin raised the blade above his head in both hands and turned his face toward the heavens. “Most High God,” he said, his words ringing in the silence of the temple yard, “hear your servant. Show your power now; exalt yourself in the midst of your enemies. Let your justice burn like a flame in the land, that all men may worship the true god.”

“Your god is deaf, it seems,” scoffed Nimrood. “Ha! There is no true god. Pray to me, Dragon King! Perhaps I will grant your prayer!”

Quentin, eyes closed and face turned upward, did not listen to Nimrood’s mocking laughter, but instead prayed as fervently as ever he had in his life, pouring himself out before the Most High. And in that moment he felt the blade grow warm in his hand. He opened his eyes and looked skyward as the heavy black clouds parted and a single shaft of light fell upon him, striking the blade in his hand. He stood in a circle of golden light, and as he looked the light played along the tapering blade, winking in the gems at the hilt. The light was alive, and out of it a voice spoke, saying, “Throw down the altar! It should have been thrown down long ago.”