Ben slept that night in a poplar grove a few miles south of the rim of the Deep Fell. When he awoke at sunrise, he began his journey east to the Fire Springs.
He took Fillip and Sot with him, despite their obvious reluctance to go. He had no choice. He was afraid that without them he might become lost or sidetracked. He knew the country reasonably well from his studies at the castle, but there was always the possibility of encountering something those studies had missed or becoming stymied through ignorance, and he couldn't risk letting either happen. Time was something that he didn't have to waste, and the G'home Gnomes would have to bear with him a little while longer.
As it was, the journey took the better part of three days. It would have taken longer if Fillip and Sot hadn't appropriated a pair of plow horses whose day had clearly come and gone. They were so swaybacked and rough-gaited that it jarred his bones just to watch them amble about the camp site. Riding them was worse, but the pace of travel improved and they covered more distance, so he kept his peace. He never asked the gnomes where they got the horses. Moral principle took a backseat to expediency on this occasion.
They came down out of the forested hill country below the Deep Fell, skirted the broad plains of the Greensward, and passed east into the wasteland that stretched to the far rim of the valley. Their journey seemed endless. It dragged with the weight of a millstone tied about their necks. Ben was consumed by fear for his missing friends; too much could happen, all of it bad, before he would be able to reach them. Fillip and Sot were consumed by fear for their own skins; they believed themselves sacrificial lambs being led to the dragon's dinner table. The three talked to one another as little as possible, uncomfortable with the journey, its purpose, and each other.
Ben thought frequently of Nightshade as they traveled, and his thoughts were not pleasant ones. It was bad enough that he had left Willow alone and unprotected when he had gone into the mists, bad enough that Questor and the others had come down into the hollows looking for him when he had failed to return that first day, and worse than bad that all of them had been whisked off to Abaddon and the demons on a whim, while Nightshade idled about waiting for his return. But it was unforgivable that he hadn't made better use of the witch when he had held her captive under the power of the Io Dust. There were any number of things he should have done and hadn't. He should have had her use her magic to bring the dragon to him — to lure it there, if nothing else. Had she been unable to do that, he should have had her use the magic to send him to the dragon. That would have saved three days of traipsing all over the valley on a plow horse! He should have had her supply him with some of her magic. A little extra protection wouldn't have hurt. And he never should have let her off so easy — not after what she had done. He should have made certain she would cause him no further problems. Or at least he should have made her pledge to him in case she did escape.
But as the journey wore on, such thoughts fragmented, faded and died away. Should have, could have — what the hell difference did it make now? He had done the best he could; he simply hadn't thought of everything. A pledge made under duress was probably worthless. Unknown magic was probably more dangerous than no magic. Things were better as they were; he would find a way to make do with what he had.
They reached the Fire Springs late on the third day out. The gnomes had taken him deep into the wasteland east of the Greensward, a country of mixed horrors — barren plains of desert sand and dust, hills of saw grass, scrub, and gnarled short trees, sucking swamp that oozed red mud and quick-sand, and petrified forests where the trees were tangled, broken bones that jutted from the earth. The land had a wintry cast beyond anything that Ben had seen in the other parts of the valley, a washed and colorless mix from dying vegetation and broken earth. Even the Bonnie Blues did not grow here. The three had worked their way through hills and ridges grown thick with stunted briar and tangled brush to a forest of deadwood, cresting a deep ravine. They walked their horses, unable to ride them through the heavy undergrowth. Mist floated in thick clouds over everything, a blanket that smelled of the land's death.
"There, High Lord!" Fillip cried suddenly, bringing Ben to a halt with a hasty tug on one sleeve.
"The Fire Springs, High Lord!" Sot announced, pointing into the distance.
Ben peered through the mist and trees. He couldn't see a thing. He peered harder. Now he caught a glimpse of something flickering against the gloom — a sort of light that reflected on the mist.
"Let's get a bit closer," he urged. "I can't see anything from here."
He started forward again and then stopped. Fillip and Sot were not moving. They glanced at each other, then at him, then at each other again. Their furry faces lowered and their noses twitched.
"This is close enough, High Lord," Fillip advised.
"As close as we're going, High Lord," Sot agreed.
"We have no protection against the dragon."
"No protection at all."
"He would eat us without thinking twice about it."
"He would burn us to the bone!"
Fillip hesitated. "The dragon is too dangerous, High Lord. Leave him and come away."
Sot nodded solemnly. "Let the dragon be, High Lord. Let him be."
Ben studied them a moment, then shook his head. "I can't let him be, fellows. I need him." He smiled ruefully and walked back. He placed a hand on the shoulder of each. "Will you wait here for me? Until I come back?"
Fillip looked up at him, eyes squinting. "We will wait for you, High Lord. Until you come back."
Sot rubbed his paws together absently. "If you come back," he muttered.
Ben left them with the plow horses and forged ahead into the tangled undergrowth. He picked his way cautiously, trying to be as quiet as possible. He could see geysers of steam rising from beyond the ridgeline to mingle with the mist. The flickering light shone more clearly, a shimmer of brightness dancing against the sky. He could smell something as well — something unpleasantly reminiscent of spoiled meat.
Sweat and dust streaked his face and arms, but he was cold inside. He had been anxious for this until now.
One hand stole to the pockets of his tunic. What remained of the Io Dust from the emptied pod was in his right pocket. The full pod was in his left. He really hadn't devised a plan yet for using the dust. He didn't have any idea at all what sort of plan would work. His sole objective was to get as close to the dragon as possible and hope that an opportunity presented itself.
A King of Landover ought to have a better plan than that, he thought gloomily, but he couldn't seem to come up with one.
He crested the ridgeline and peered over. A broad, misshapen ravine sprawled away before him, pitted with craters of all sizes and shapes, their bowls filled with an unidentifiable bluish liquid on which yellowish flames danced and burned, casting flickers of light against the shroud of mist. Tangled thickets and mounts of earth and rock clogged the floor of the ravine between craters, a formidable array of obstacles to anyone who sought to enter.
Ben looked the ravine over carefully. The dragon was nowhere to be seen.
"It figures," he muttered.
He debated for a time what to do next. He could either wait where he was until Strabo returned or make his way down into the ravine and wait there. He opted for the second choice. He wanted to be as close as possible to the dragon when he finally faced it.
He slipped over the crest of the ridge and started down.A voice somewhere deep inside kept whispering that he was crazy. He fully agreed. He could not believe he was doing this. He was terrified of the dragon; he would have preferred to turn tail and run out of there as quickly as his shaking legs could manage it. He was not particularly brave; he was just desperate. He hadn't realized until this moment exactly how desperate he was.
But I won't let them down, he promised himself, thinking of Willow and the others. Whatever happens, I won't.
He reached the bottom of the ravine and glanced about. Steam geysered sharply from a crater close at hand, a whooshing sound that startled him. Flames lifted with the explosion and flickered hungrily against the mist. He could barely see where he was going this close to the springs, but he made his way forward resolutely. He supposed that someplace in the middle of the Fire Springs might be the best place to wait — although not too far out in the middle. His breathing was quick and ragged. He wished he had command of the Paladin. He wished Questor and the kobolds were with him. He wished anyone was with him. He wished he were somewhere else.
Steam and heat seared his nose and mouth, and he wrinkled his face in distaste. The smell was terrible. There were bones on the floor of the ravine, some of them quite new. He forced himself to ignore them. Brush and scrub blocked his way, but he pushed steadily through. He skirted a pile of broken rock, a boulder cluster, and the skeleton of a rather large animal. He thought he had come far enough. There was a massive earth mound just ahead with a curl of rock at one end. It appeared a good hiding place. He would wait there for the dragon to return.
He wondered suddenly how long that might be. The Fire Springs might be Strabo's home, but that didn't mean he came there all that often. Maybe he came only once a year, for pete's sake! His impatience with himself flared. He should have asked the witch, damn it! He should have...
He came to an abrupt and startled halt. He was less than a dozen feet from his chosen hiding place, the curl of rock against the massive earthen mound — and the mound had just moved.
He stared. No, he must have imagined it.
The mound moved again.
"Oh, my God," he whispered.
A tiny cloud of dust rose from just above what he had believed to be the tip of the rock curls and a huge, lidded eye slipped open.
Ben Holiday, lawyer extraordinaire, intrepid adventurer, and would-be King of Landover had just made a very big mistake.
The dragon stirred lazily, shaking off the layer of earth and dust that covered it, and uncurled from its sleep. It kept its eyes on Ben, watching him the way a snake watches it's cornered prey. Ben was frozen where he stood. He should have used the Io Dust. He should have turned and run. He should have done something — anything! But he could not move an inch. It was all over but the shouting. He found himself wondering in a rush of black humor if he would be fried or sauteed.
Strabo blinked. The crusted head swung slowly about and the long snout split wide. Blackened teeth slipped free, and a long, split tongue flicked at the misted air.
"I know you from somewhere, don't I?" the dragon asked.
Ben was floored. He had expected a good many things from the dragon, but talking wasn't one of them. The fact that the dragon talked changed everything. It took the edge off the fear he felt for the beast. It revised in an instant's time his whole perspective on what was happening to him. If the dragon could be talked to, maybe the dragon could be reasoned with! He forgot about being fried or sauteed. He forgot about defending himself. He searched instead for something to say in reply.
Strabo's head snapped up. "The mists at the edge of the fairy world — that's where I saw you. Several weeks ago wasn't it? I was asleep and you wandered past me. Stared at me so hard you woke me. Rude of you to do that, I might add." He paused. "That was you, wasn't it?"
Ben nodded mechanically, an image flashing in his mind of the dragon blowing him away head-over-heels like a feather caught in the wind. He brushed the image aside. He was still unable to believe that he was actually hearing the beast talk.The dragon had an odd voice, a sort of machinelike hiss that reverberated as if released from an echo chamber.
"Who are you?" the dragon asked, head lowering again.
"What were you doing in the mists?" He showed his teeth as his lips curled back from his gums. "Are you one of the fairies?"
Ben shook his head. "No, I'm not." He gathered his wits quickly now. "I'm Ben Holiday, from Chicago. From another world, really. I'm Landover's new King."
"Are you?" The dragon seemed unimpressed.
"Yes." Ben hesitated, his courage slowly returning. "You know, I didn't think dragons talked."
Strabo shifted his bulk slightly, undulating his long, serpentine body so that his backside rested against a series of smaller pools, the flames dancing close against his scaled hide. "Oh, one of those," he sniffed.
Ben frowned. "One of which?"
"One of those humans who think dragons are illiterate, mindless beasts who spend their time wreaking havoc on poor, hard-working, simple folk until some champion appears to do them in. You're one of those, aren't you?"
"I suppose I am."
"You read too many fairy tales, Holiday. Who do you think spreads those stories about dragons? Not the dragons, you can be sure. No, humans spread those stories, and humans are not about to characterize themselves as the bad folk and the dragon as the one mistreated, are they? You must consider the source, as they say. It is much easier to cast the dragon as the villain, burning fields, devouring livestock and peasants, seizing beautiful princesses, and challenging knights in armor. It all makes great reading, even if it isn't the truth."
Ben stared. What kind of dragon was this?
"There were dragons before there were humans, you know. There were dragons before most of the fairy creatures came into being." Strabo bent down. His breath was terrible. "The trouble didn't start with the dragons; it started with the others. No one wanted the dragons around. The dragons took up too much space. Everyone was frightened of the dragons and what they were capable of doing — never mind that it was only a few giving the rest a bad name! And our magic was so much stronger than theirs that they could not control us as they wished."
The crusted head shook slowly. "But there are always ways of getting what you want if you work hard enough at it, and they worked very hard at getting rid of us. We were exiled, hunted, and destroyed, one after the other, until now there is only me. And they would destroy me as well, if they could."
He didn't specify who "they" were, but Ben guessed he meant everyone in general. "Are you saying you aren't responsible for any of the things for which you are blamed?" he asked, looking a bit doubtful.
"Oh, don't be stupid, Holiday — of course I'm responsible! I'm responsible for practically all of them!" The voice hissed softly. "I kill the humans and their tame animals when I wish. I burn out their crops and homes if I choose. I steal their mates because it pleases me. I hate them."
The tongue flicked. "But it wasn't always so, you see. It wasn't so until it became easier for me to be the thing they thought me than to try to survive as the creature I once was..." He trailed off, as if remembering. "I've been alive for almost a thousand years, you know, and all alone for the past two hundred of those. There are no more dragons. They're all legends. I'm all there is — like the Paladin. You know of him. Holiday? We're both the last of our kind."
Ben watched the dragon nuzzle at a Fire Spring, drinking the burning waters, inhaling the flames slowly. "Why are you telling me all of this?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.
The dragon looked up. "Because you're here." The snout dipped. "Why are you here, by the way?"
Ben hesitated, remembering suddenly what had brought him. "Well..."
"Oh, yes." The dragon cut him short. "You're Landover's newest King. Congratulations."
"Thanks. I haven't been at it very long."
"No, I assume not — otherwise you wouldn't be here."
"I wouldn't?"
"Hardly." The dragon bent closer. "When the old King was alive, he kept me exiled here in this wasteland. I was forbidden the rest of the valley. The Paladin was used to keep me here because the Paladin was as strong as I. I flew the skies at night, sometimes, but could not let myself be seen by the humans nor interfere in their lives..." The dragon's voice had grown hard. "I promised myself that one day I would be free again. This valley was as much mine as anyone's. And when the old King died and the Paladin disappeared, I was free, Holiday — and no King of Landover shall ever put me back again."
Ben was aware of a none-too-subtle shift in the atmosphere between them, but he pretended not to notice. "I'm not here for that," he said.
"But you are here to ask for my pledge to the throne, aren't you?"
"I'd thought about it," Ben admitted.
Strabo's snout split wide with a low, hissing laugh. "Such courage. Holiday! Wasted, though. I have never given my pledge to Landover's Kings — never, in the thousand years of my life. Why should I? I am not as those others who live here! I am not confined to Landover as they! I can travel anywhere I choose!"
Ben swallowed. "You can?"
The dragon shifted, tail curling back behind Ben. "Well...not anywhere, I suppose. But almost anywhere. I cannot travel deep into the fairy world nor into worlds where they do not believe in dragons. Do they believe in dragons in your world?"
Ben shook his head. "I don't think so."
"That explains why I have never been there. I travel only to lands where dragons are real — or, at least, where dragons once were real. I frequent half a dozen worlds close at hand. Most I have hunted. I had to hunt them when the old King forbid me the valley." His look turned sly, eyes lidding. "But hunting beyond the valley is more work than I care to do. It is easier to hunt here. It is more satisfying!"
The atmosphere had now gone decidely chilly. The dragon could be talked to, but it looked doubtful that he could be reasoned with. Ben felt doors closing all about him. "Well, I don't suppose that there's much point in my suggesting that you do anything else then, is there?"
Strabo lifted slightly on his hindlegs, dust rising from his massive body. "I have enjoyed our conversation, Holiday, but it appears to be at an end. Unfortunately, that means the end of you."
"Oh, wait a minute, let's not be so hasty." Ben couldn't get the words out fast enough, his mind racing. "Our conversation doesn't have to be over, does it? I think we should talk a bit more!"
"I can understand why you would might want to," the dragon hissed softly. "But I grow bored."
"Bored! Okay, let's change the subject!"
"That wouldn't help."
"No? Well, how about if I just leave, then — just walk away, say good-bye, so long?" Ben was desperate now.
The dragon loomed above him, a huge, scaled shadow. "That just postpones the inevitable. Eventually you would come back again. You would have to, because you are Landover's King. Face it, Holiday — I am the enemy. Either you have to destroy me or I have to destroy you. I much prefer the latter."
Ben glanced about wildly. "For God's sake, why does one of us have to destroy the other?"
"Why? Because that's the way it is between dragons and Kings. That's the way it's always been."
Ben's frustration had reached the breaking point. "Well if that's the way it's always been, then why the long dissertation on the disservice being done to dragons by storytelling humans? Why did you waste time telling me all that if you planned to fry me right after?"
The dragon actually laughed. "What a quaint way of putting it!" He paused. "Yes, why bother telling you anything under the circumstances? Good point." He thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. "I suppose because it was something to do. There's not a lot do do out here, you know."
Ben felt the last of his hope drain away. This was the end. He had dodged one silver bullet in the mists of the fairy world and a second in his confrontation with Nightshade. But this third one was going to do him in. He watched the dragon lift higher above him and begin to inhale slowly. One blast of fire and that would be it. His mind worked frantically. He had to do something! Damn it, he couldn't just stand there and let himself be incinerated!
"Wait!" he called out sharply, "Don't do it!" His hand reached into his tunic front and yanked free the medallion. "I still have this! I'll use its magic if I have to."
Strabo exhaled slowly, steam, smoke and flame singing the misted air. He stared at the medallion and his tongue licked out. "You don't command the magic. Holiday."
Ben took a deep breath. "You're wrong. I do. I'll bring the Paladin if you don't let me go."
There was a long moment of silence. The dragon studied him thoughtfully and said nothing. Ben sent up a silent prayer. This was his last hope. The Paladin had come to him before when he was in trouble. Maybe...
His hand tightened about the face of the medallion, feeling the engraved surface press against his palm. A sudden, unexpected revelation came to him. What was he thinking? He could escape right now, if he chose! He had forgotten momentarily that the medallion gave him the means to do so! The medallion would take him back to his old world in an instant — all he had to do was take it off!
But that would mean leaving his friends trapped in Abaddon. That would mean leaving Landover forever. That would mean giving up.
That would also mean staying alive. He weighed the prospect, undecided. "I think you're lying, Holiday," the dragon said suddenly and began to breathe in again.
Good-bye, world, Ben thought and prepared to make a futile dash for safety.
But suddenly there was a sharp glimmer of light through the mist and steam that rose above the flames of the springs, and the Paladin did appear! Ben could not believe it. The knight materialized out of nothingness, a solitary, battered form atop his aging mount, lance hoisted in the crook of one arm before him. Strabo turned at once, clearly startled. Flames burst from his maw in an explosive roar, enveloped the knight and horse, and died into smoke. Ben flinched, feeling the backlash of the tremendous heat. He turned away, shielding his eyes, then quickly looked back again.
The Paladin was unharmed.
Strabo rose slowly on his massive hindlegs, wings lifting like a shield, lidded eyes casting about to find Ben again. "Twenty years — it's been twenty years!" he whispered in a low hiss. "I thought him gone forever! How did you bring him back. Holiday? How?"
Ben started to stammer something in reply, as surprised as Strabo by the Paladin's reappearance, then quickly caught himself. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for.
"The medallion!" he exclaimed at once. "The medallion brought him! The words of magic are inscribed here — on the medallion's back! Look for yourself!"
He held the disk out obligingly, dangling it from its silver chain so that the misted light reflected brightly from its surface. Strabo bent down, serpentine neck angling from his massive body, crusted head drawing close. The huge maw split open, the long tongue licking. Ben caught his breath. The dragon's shadow fell over him, blocking away the light.
"Look — you can see the writing!" Ben urged and thought, just a little closer...
One hooked foreleg reached for the medallion.
Ben's free hand jerked clear of his tunic pocket, and he flung a fistful of the Io Dust directly into Strabo's nostrils. The dragon inhaled in surprise, then sneezed. The sneeze nearly blew Ben off his feet, but somehow he held his ground. He snatched back the medallion, reached into his other pocket and produced the pod. Strabo's head was already swinging about to find him, jaws widening. Ben hurled the pod into the open maw. The dragon was quick, catching the pod in midair, biting down on it in fury, grinding it into pulp.
Too late Strabo realized his mistake. Io Dust flew everywhere, expoding from the dragon's mouth in jets of white smoke. Strabo gave a dreadful roar and flames burst forth. Ben threw himself aside, rolled twice, scrambled to his feet again and raced for the clump of boulders he had passed coming in. He gained it half a dozen yards ahead of the fire and dove frantically behind it. Strabo had gone completely beserk. He was thrashing above the floor of the Fire Springs in a frenzy, his massive body smashing earth and rock alike. A crater of flames geysered skyward with a booming cough. The dragon roared and breathed fire everywhere. Flames and smoke filled the afternoon air, obscuring everything. The Paladin disappeared. The springs disappeared. Ben huddled in his shelter and prayed he had been quick enough that the dragon had lost sight of him.
After a time, the thrashing and the flames ceased, and it grew quiet again. Ben waited patiently in his shelter, listening to the muffled sounds of the dragon as he moved slowly about. The booming explosions of the Fire Springs faded back into a soft hissing.
"Holiday?"
The dragon's voice was harsh with anger. Ben stayed where he was.
"Holiday? That was Io Dust, Holiday! That was an entire pod of Io Dust! Where did you get it? You said you weren't one of the fairies! You lied!"
Ben waited. He hadn't heard anything he liked yet. He listened as Strabo moved somewhere off to his left — listened to the heavy sound of his body dragging.
"Do you know how dangerous such magic is, Holiday? Do you know the harm you could have caused me? Why did you trick me like that?"
The moving stopped. Ben heard the dragon shift himself, then heard the sound of drinking. Maybe he had made a mistake, he thought suddenly. Maybe an entire pod of Io Dust was too much for anyone. Maybe the dragon was hurt.
There was a lengthy sigh. "Holiday, why have you done this to me? What is it that you want of me? Tell me and be done with it!"
The dragon sounded more hurt than angry. Ben decided to risk it. "I want your word that you will do nothing to harm me!" he called out.
The dragon's reply was a soft hiss. "You have it."
"I want you to tell me that you will do whatever I tell you to do and nothing else. You have to anyway, you know."
"I know, Holiday! I agree! Tell me what it is that you want!"
Ben slipped cautiously from behind the shelter of the boulders. Streamers of mist and smoke still hung over the pit of the Fire Springs, casting everything in an eerie half-light. Strabo crouched several dozen yards away between a series of burning craters, looking like an angry, trapped animal. His ugly, crusted head swung slowly about, lidded eyes catching sight of Ben. Ben tensed, prepared to dive back behind the boulders. But the dragon only looked at him and waited.
"Come over here," Ben ordered.
The dragon came — meekly. There was undisguised hatred in his eyes. Ben watched the monster approach. The barrel shaped body hunched along above thick, armored legs. Wings flapped with the movement, and the long tail snaked about restlessly. Ben felt like Fay Wray with King Kong.
"Set me free!" Strabo demanded. "Set me free, and I'll let you live!"
Ben shook his head. "I can't do that."
"You mean you won't!" the dragon whispered, his voice like sandpaper rubbed across slate. "But you can't keep me like this forever, and when I do get free of you..."
"Let's just skip the threats, shall we?"
"...there won't be enough left of you to fill a gnome's thimble goblet, not enough to feed the smallest cave wight and I'll cause you such pain that you won't believe..."
"Are you ready to listen to me?"
The dragon's head lifted disdainfully. "I won't pledge to you, Holiday! It would mean nothing given this way!"
Ben nodded. "I understand that. I don't want your pledge."
There was a long moment of silence as the dragon studied him. The hatred in the beast's eyes had given way to curiosity. It appeared that the worst was over. The dragon was his — for the moment, at least. Ben felt a welcome easing of tension within himself, a dissipation of the fear and sharp anticipation. He had dodged silver bullet number three. He still held the medallion clasped tightly in one hand, and he slipped it back into his tunic now. He glanced about momentarily for the Paladin, but the knight had disappeared again.
"Like a ghost..."he murmured.
He turned back to the dragon. Strabo was still studying him. The wicked tongue licked nervously at the misted air."Very well. Holiday. I give up. What do you want from me?"
Ben smiled. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable, and I'll tell you."
It was nearing dusk when Ben tightened the last of the straps on the makeshift leather riding harness he had fashioned, ordered Strabo to kneel down and climbed aboard. He settled himself carefully in the seat that rested at the juncture of several clusters of bony spikes that ribbed the dragon's spine, tested the cinch straps for slippage and fitted his boots into the iron stirrups.
At least he had the riding harness. He was lucky to have that. It was an unwieldy apparatus, constructed from traces, straps, buckles, and rings that had belonged to various field animals fallen victim to the dragon and brought to the Fire Springs for leisurely consumption. He had picked it out from among the bones and fastened it all together. It was bound about the dragon's neck just above and behind the forelegs, the saddle on which he sat settled forward of the haunches. Reins ran to the neckjust behind the crusted head. Ben didn't think for a moment that he would be able to guide the dragon as he would a horse; the reins were just one more precaution to keep him from falling off.
"If you fall, you're in trouble, Holiday," the dragon had warned him earlier.
"Then you'd better make sure that I don't," Ben had replied. "You are ordered to make sure that I don't."
He wasn't convinced, however, that Strabo could do that, to Dust or no Io Dust. They were descending into the netherworld of Abaddon, and both lives would be at risk. Strabo would have difficulty keeping them safe under the best of circumstances — and the proposed rescue of his missing friends from the realm of the demons did not promise the best of anything.
He paused momentarily, seated atop the dragon, and gazed out across the wasteland. They had moved to the rim of the Fire Springs, clear of the burning craters and the thick undergrowth. The day was dying into evening; as the sun slipped down behind the distant mountains, mist and gloom settled over the valley. Landover was a murky gathering of shadows and vague shapes. Ben could almost watch the failing of the daylight from one moment to the next. It was as if the valley were disappearing before his eyes. He had the uneasy sensation that it was, the unpleasant feeling that he would never see it again.
He straightened himself in the stirrups, hardening his resolve against such thoughts. He forced a grim smile. Ben Holiday was about to sally forth, a knight atop his steed, off to the rescue. He almost laughed. Don Quixote, off to tilt with windmills — what a picture he could send home again if he had his camera! Damn, but he had never thought — never believed — that he would be doing anything like this with his life! All those years of living behind concrete and steel walls; all those stuffy courtrooms and musty law libraries; all those sterile pleadings and legal briefs; all those lawbooks and statutes and codes — how far removed from that he was now!
And he knew, with a certainty that surprised him, that he could never go back again to any of it.
"What are you doing up there, Holiday — admiring the view?" Strabo's hiss of displeasure interrupted his thoughts. "Let's be on our way!"
"All right," Ben agreed softly. "Take me up."
The dragon's wings spread wide, and he lifted from the ground with a lurch. Ben held tightly to the reins and harness straps, watching the land drop away quickly beneath him. He had a momentary glimpse of bramble, thicket, and deadwood forests fading into trailers of mist and dusk's lengthening shadows, and then there was only gloom. Fillip and Sot were down there somewhere, hidden from view. He had gone back to them long enough to let them know that he was riding Strabo down into Abaddon to rescue the others. He had dispatched them back again to Sterling Silver to await his return. They had been only too quick to go, their horror-stricken faces clearly reflecting their unspoken conviction that they had seen the last of him.
Maybe they had, he mused. Maybe he should have told them to go on home and forget about him. They probably wouldn't have done that, though. They still took their pledge to him quite seriously.
He reflected momentarily on all the help they had given him — a pair of larcenous, grimy little cannibals. Who woold have thought it? Silently, he wished them well.
Strabo flew into the coming night, passing from the eastern wasteland to the fringes of the Greensward and then west. The daylight failed completely, darkness descended, and Landover's moons began to shine. They were all visible on this night — white, peach, washed-out mauve, burnt rose, sea green, beryl, turquoise, and jade — their colors unobstructed by the mists that shrouded the valley below. They were like giant balloons, Ben thought and wondered where the party was.
The minutes slipped rapidly past. Strabo's massive body undulated rhythmically beneath Ben as the leathered wings beat against the night winds and carried them westward. Ben gripped the reins and harness and hung on for dear life. Air currents buffeted and chilled him. Landover was a vast bowl of steaming soup over which he hung suspended. He was exhilarated by the sensation of flying like this, but he was frightened, too. He hadn't liked horseback riding and he didn't like dragon riding any better. The dragon kept a steady pace and that helped, but Ben still distrusted the situation. He knew the Io Dust could wear off at any time and that would be the end of him.
"This is a foolish venture!" Strabo called back to him moments later, as if reading his thoughts. The crusted, misshapen head swung about, eyes glinting. "All this for a handful of humans!"
"My friends!" Ben shouted in reply, the wind whipping the words back into his face.
"Your friends mean nothing to me!"
"Fair enough — you mean nothing to them! Except Questor Thews, I suppose — he thinks you special!"
"The wizard? Pah!"
"Just do what I told you to do!" Ben ordered.
"I hate you, Holiday!"
"Sorry — I don't care!"
"You will! Sooner or later, I'll get free of you and when I do you'll be sorry you ever decided to use me this way!"
The head swung back again, the cold, mechanical voice dying into the rush of the wind. Ben said nothing. He gripped the reins and the harness straps tighter.
They flew deep into the Greensward toward the center of the valley. Ben did not know where they were going. He knew the dragon was taking him to Abaddon, but he had no idea where Abaddon was. Abaddon was the netherworld of Landover, but its gates were time passages of the sort that had brought him from his own world. They were not, however, the same time passages. They were not to be found within the mists that ringed the valley. They were hidden somewhere within the valley, Strabo had told him — somewhere only the demons and the dragon could reach...
Strabo slowed suddenly and began a long sweep back that became a widening circle. Ben looked down. The valley was a shroud of mist and gloom. Strabo's wings spread wider, and the dragon began to bank sharply on the night winds.
"Hold tight to me, Holiday!" the dragon cried back to him.
Strabo dipped suddenly and started down. Wings flattened back and the long neck stretched forward. They began to pick up speed as the dragon's dive steepened. The wind rushed past Ben Holiday's ears in a vicious roar that drowned out everything. The ground began to come into focus, a shapeless blur sharpening with the passing of each second they dropped. Ben was cold all the way through. They were going too fast! They were going to dive right into the middle of the Greensward!
Then abruptly the dragon fire exploded from Strabo's throat, a huge, brilliant arc of crimson flame. The air seemed to melt before it, cellophane that wrinkled and expanded at its edges, leaving a jagged hole. Ben squinted against the rush of the wind and saw the blackness of the hole open out of the night. Dragon fire died away, but the hole remained. They were passing through it, flying into the empty dark. Landover disappeared; the misted Greensward was gone. There was a sucking noise as the hole closed behind them and then sudden stillness.
Strabo leveled off within the black. Ben lifted slightly from where he had crouched down against the dragon's spine and stared about, awestruck. The world had undergone a radical change. Moon and stars were gone. There was a sky of inky black, canopied over a sprawling mass of jagged peaks and deep gorges. Flashes of lightning danced at the juncture of earth and sky, filling the fringes of the horizon with a bizarre light show. Volcanos growled in the distance, their reddish fires glimmering from out of mountainous cones of rock; streams of lava flowed in long red trailers like blood. The earth shook and grumbled with the eruptions, and geysers of flame and molten rock exploded skyward against the blackness.
"Abaddon!" Strabo advised, his voice a slow hiss. He dropped downward with sickening speed, and Ben felt the pit of his stomach lurch. Mountain peaks rushed past, and the fire from the volcanos burst skyward all about. Ben was terrified. Abaddon was the realization of his worst nightmare. He had never seen anything so inhospitable. Nothing could survive in such a world.
A shadow rocketed past, winged and elusive. Strabo hissed in warning. Another shadow slipped past, then another. There were sharp hisses and flashes of teeth. Dragon fire burst suddenly from Strabo's maw, and one of the shadows screamed and dropped earthward. Ben flattened himself within the nest of spikes that protected the dragon's spine. The fire burst forth again and again. Another of the shadows exploded into ash and fell. Strabo was weaving evasively as more of the shadows appeared. He stretched out his massive body and increased his speed. The black things fell behind and were gone.
A series of rugged peaks whipped past, and then the dragon slowed once more. "Gnats!" he growled contemptuously. "No match for me!"
Ben was drenched with sweat and could barely catch his breath. "How much farther?"
The dragon's laugh was harsh. "A bit, Holiday. What seems to be the matter? Is this more than you bargained for?"
"I'll be fine. You do what you were told to do and get to my friends!"
"Temper, Holiday."
The dragon flew on through the fire-streaked blackness. The "gnats" came at them twice more, and twice more Strabo burned a handful of them before flying past. The world of Abaddon stretched on below, unchanging in its look, a world of rock and fire. White light danced errantically on the horizons all about, and lava flared within the craters of the mountain peaks, but in the valleys and gorges below all remained impenetrably black. If there was something living down there, it could not be seen from the air.
Ben began to experience a growing sense of futility. His friends had been trapped in this world for almost five days!
Strabo banked left between two monstrous volcanic peaks and started down. Wind rushed past, and trailers of fire laced the mountain rock on both sides. Ben peered down into the lava. Things were swimming in the fire! Things were playing there!
A monstrous black shadow heaved up from out of the shadows on one peak, tentacled arms reaching. Strabo hissed and the dragon fire burned at the arms. The arms shuddered and drew back. The shadow disappeared.
Then they were through the mountains and within a valley ringed by jagged peaks. Strabo dove sharply and leveled off less than fifty feet above its floor. Pools of fiery lava bubbled at the fringes of the valley, throwing rocks and flame skyward in small bursts. Cracks and crevices split the barren floor, dropping away into blackness. Creatures scurried everywhere, small and misshapen in the crimson half-light, things barely human. Cries rose up at the sight of the dragon, shrieks that disappeared as quickly as they sounded in the distant roar of the volcanos. Ben heard the dragon screech in reply.
The "gnats" reappeared, dozens strong. Other things winged into view, larger and more fearsome-looking. Strabo leveled out and flew faster. Ben was hunched down so close to the dragon's spine that he could feel the pulsing of his hide. Straps and cinches strained with the effort of the dragon's flight. Ben could feel things beginning to loosen.
Then a monstrous pit of fire appeared before them, its throat thousands offset deep. A tiny slab of rock hung suspended by chains across that throat — a disk of stone that measured no more than a dozen feet across. The slab of rock danced and bobbled unsteadily on its webbing of iron, and the fire licked up at it hungrily from far below.
Ben caught his breath sharply. There were a handful of tiny figures crouched on that slab of rock, fighting to keep their balance.
His friends!
Strabo dove for them, gnats and other flying demons in pursuit. Other demons still, hundreds strong, were gathered about the fire pit, throwing rocks at the figures crouched upon the slab and shaking the chains that secured it. All were yelling gleefully. It was a game they were playing, Ben realized in horror. The demons had trapped or placed his friends on that slab and were waiting now to see them fall into the fire!
The pit drew closer. The demons turned, seeing the dragon now, crying out. Hands reached for the pins that fastened the chains to the pit wall. The demons were trying to drop the slab and his friends into the fire before he could reach them!
Ben was frantic. Chains fell away quickly, one after another, and the slab of rock buckled and shook. Strabo breathed fire at the demons and burned dozens to ash, but the rest continued to work at the chains. Ben screamed in fury as he saw clearly now the faces of Questor Thews, Abernathy, the kobolds — and Willow! Strabo rocketed clear of the rim of the pit, past the demons working to release the chains that bound the rock slab. Too late, Ben thought. They were going to be too late!
There was an instant then in which time froze. There was no time and all the time in the world. Ben seemed to see everything that happened with a frightening detachment that held him suspended in the instant of its happening. The chains at one section fell away completely and the slab of rock buckled and sagged. His friends dropped to their hands and knees and began to slide toward the pit.
Strabo dove sharply, dragging Ben with him toward the fire. He reached the slab of rock as the people on it slipped away. Clawed feet snatched two out of midair. With a quick snap of his jaws, he caught another, and his great head twisted back to deposit a kobold in front of Ben. The second kobold flung himself at the harness and grasped the straps.
The final figure dropped into the pit. It was Questor Thews.
Ben saw him fall, watching in horror as the gray robes with their rainbow-colored sashes flared and billowed like a failing parachute. Strabo arced downward, then rose quickly again into the night. He was too far away to reach the wizard. He could not save him.
"Questor!" Ben screamed.
Then something truly magical happened, something so bizarre that even with all that had happened in the few moments past, it left Ben stunned. Questor's plunge into the fire seemed to slow and then to stop altogether. The wizard's arms spread wide against the crimson light of the flames and slowly the sticklike figure began to rise from the pit.
Ben caught his breath, his mind racing. There was only one possible answer. Questor Thews had finally conjured up the right spell! He had made the magic work!
Strabo arced downward quickly, bursts of fire incinerating the "gnats" and other flying demons that sought to intercede. He reached Questor Thews just as the wizard levitated above the rim of the pit, flew under him, and caught him on his back so that he was settled just behind Ben.
Ben turned hurriedly and stared. Questor sat there like a statue, his face ashen, his eyes bright with astonishment. "It... it was all in a proper twist of the fingers, High Lord," the wizard managed before fainting.
Ben reached back and secured him, one hand firmly fixed to the gray robes as Strabo began to climb. Shrieks rose from the demons, a cacophony of epithets that faded quickly as the dragon outdistanced them. The ground dropped away below, transformed into a rumpled black shroud rent by jagged holes and cracks of flame. The lightning at the edges of the world danced wildly, streaking across the horizon's sweep, and all of Abaddon seemed to shake and rumble.
Then Strabo breathed dragon fire into the air before them, and once again the sky melted and gave way. Edges frayed and crinkled about a jagged hole, and the dragon and his passengers passed through.
Ben had to squint against a sudden change of light. When he opened his eyes wide again, stars and colored moons brightened a misted night sky.
They were back in Landover once more.
It took Ben several moments to regain his bearings. They were in Landover, but not over the Greensward. They were north, almost to the wall of the valley. Strabo circled for a time, winging over thick forestland and barren ridgeline, then eased down gently into a deserted meadow.
Ben scrambled down from the dragon's back. Bunion and Parsnip greeted him with hisses and gleaming teeth, so agitated they could barely contain themselves. Abernathy dropped rudely to the ground, picked himself up, brushed himself off, and denounced the day he had ever let himself become mixed up with any of them. Questor, conscious again, lowered himself gingerly along the harness straps and stumbled over to Ben, barely aware of what he was doing, his eyes fixed on the dragon.
"I had never believed I would see the day that anyone would rule this... this marvelous creature!" he whispered, awestruck. "Strabo — last of the old dragons, the greatest of the fairy creatures, brought to the service of a King of Landover! It was the Io Dust, of course, but still..."
He stumbled into Ben and suddenly remembered himself. "High Lord, you are safe! We thought you lost for certain! How you found your way clear of the fairy world, I will never know! How you accomplished what you did..." His enthusiasm left him momentarily speechless, and he reached for Ben's hand and pumped it vigorously. Ben grinned in spite of himself. "We came looking for you after you failed to return that first day, and the witch took us," the wizard went on hastily. "She sent us to Abaddon and dropped us on that slab of rock for the demons to play with. Almost five days, High Lord! That's how long we have been trapped there! Days of being teased and taunted by those loathsome, foul..."
The kobolds hissed and chittered wildly, pointing.
Questor nodded at once, his enthusiasm fading. "Yes, you are correct to intercede — I had indeed forgotten." He took Ben's arm. "I ramble, High Lord, when there are more pressing concerns. The sylph is very ill." He hesitated, then pulled Ben after him. "I am sorry, High Lord, but she may be dying."
Ben's smile was gone instantly. They hurried forward of where Strabo crouched, watching them with lidded eyes. Aberoathy was already kneeling in the grass next to Willow's inert form. Ben knelt with him, and Questor and the kobolds gathered close.
"Her time for joining with the earth came when she was trapped in Abaddon," Questor whispered. "She could not deny the changeling need, but the rock would not accept her."
Ben shuddered. Willow had tried to transform, unable to resist the need, and the attempt had been only partially completed. Her skin had gone wrinkled and barklike, her fingers and toes had turned to gnarled roots, her hair had become slender branches, and her body had twisted and split. She was so hideous to look upon that Ben could barely manage to do so.
"She still breathes, High Lord," Abernathy said softly.
Ben fought down his revulsion. "We have to save her," he replied, trying desperately to think of what to do. He stared in horror as Willow's body convulsed suddenly, and more roots split from the skin beneath one wrist. The sylph's eyes fluttered blindly and closed again. She was in agony. Anger coursed through Ben like a fire. "Questor, use your magic!"
"No, High Lord." Questor shook his head slowly. "No magic that I possess can help. Only one thing can save her. She must complete the transformation."
Ben wheeled on the wizard. "Damn it, how is she supposed to do that? She's barely alive!"
No one said anything. He turned back to the girl. He should never have left her alone with Nightshade. He should never have permitted her to come with him in the first place. It was his fault that this had happened. It would be his fault if she died...
He swore softly and thrust the thought aside. His mind raced.
Then suddenly he remembered. "The old pines!" he exclaimed. "The grove in Elderew where her mother danced and she transformed herself that last night! It was special to her! Perhaps she could complete the transformation there!" He was already on his feet, directing the others. "Here, help me carry her! Strabo — bend down!"
They bore the sylph to the dragon and bound her to his back. Then they climbed up beside her, fastening themselves where they could to the makeshift harness. Ben rode in front of the unconscious girl, Questor and Abernathy behind, the kobolds to either side at the stirrups.
Strabo grunted irritably in response to a command from Ben and then lifted into the night sky. They flew south, the dragon leveling out and straining to increase his speed, the wind threatening to tear them all loose from the creaking harness. The minutes slipped past, and the hill country north gave way to the plains of the Greensward. Ben's hand reached back to touch the body of the sylph and found the barklike skin cold and hard. They were losing her. There wasn't enough time. The Greensward passed away and the forests and rivers of the lake country appeared, dim patches of color through the haze of mist. The dragon dropped lower, skimming the treetops and the ridgelines. Ben was shaking with impatience and frustration. His hand still clasped Willow's arm, and it seemed as if he could actually feel the life passing from her.
Then Strabo banked sharply left and dove downward into the forest. Trees rushed up to greet them, then there was a small clearing through the wall of branches; as quick as that, they were on the ground once more. Ben scrambled down wordlessly, the others with him, all working frantically to free Willow. The forest loomed about them like a wall, trailers of mist swirling through the rows of dark trunks. Bunion hissed at them and led the way, his instincts sure. They moved into the trees, slipping and groping their way through the near black, carrying the rigid form of the girl.
They reached the pine grove in seconds. The pines stood empty and silent in the mist, sentinels against the dark. Ben directed the procession to the grove's center, the earthen stage on which Willow's mother had danced the last night before he had departed Elderew.
Gently, they laid Willow down. Ben felt the girl's wrist above the mass of roots and tendrils that had broken the skin. The wrist was cold and lifeless.
"She is not breathing. High Lord!" Questor whispered in a low hiss.
Ben was frantic. He lifted the stricken sylph in his arms and held her close against him. He was crying. "Damn it, you can't die, Willow, you can't do this to me!" He cradled her, feeling the roughness of her skin chafe his face. "Willow, answer me!"
And suddenly he was holding Annie, her body broken and bloodstained from the accident that had taken her life, another piece of wreckage to be swept from the scene. The sensation was so sharp that he gasped. He could feel bone and blood and torn flesh; he could feel the small, frail life of his unborn child. "Oh, God, no!" he cried softly.
He jerked his head up, and the image faded. He was holding Willow again. He bent close, kissing the sylph's cheek and mouth, his tears running down her face. He had lost Annie and the child she carried. He could not stand it if he were to lose Willow, too. "Don't die," he begged her. "I don't want you to die. Willow, please!"
Her frail body stirred, responding almost miraculously, and her eyes opened to his. He looked into those eyes, past the ravaged face and body, past the devastation wrought by the half-completed transformation. He reached for the flicker of life that still burned within.
"Come back to me, Willow!" he begged her. "You must live!"
The eyes closed again. But the body of the sylph stirred more strongly now, and convulsions became spasms of effort to regain muscle control. Willow's throat swallowed. "Ben. Help me up. Hold me."
He brought her quickly to her feet, and the others stepped back from them. He held her there, feeling the lifeblood work itself through her, feeling the transformation begin again. Her roots snaked deep into the forest soil, her branches lengthened and split, and her trunk stretched and hardened.
Then everything went still. Ben looked up. The change was complete. Willow had become the tree that was her namesake. It was going to be all right.
His eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Thank you," he whispered.
He lowered his head, wrapped his arms about the slender trunk, and cried.
The demon appeared toward dawn, materializing out of the doom, a black and misshapen thing wrapped in armor. It happened very suddenly. The wind whispered, the mist swirled, and the demon was there.
Ben was awake almost instantly. He had been dozing, sleeping in fits and starts, cramped from leaning against Willow, from holding her. Strabo was presumably still back in the clearing where Ben had left him.
The demon approached, and Ben rose to meet it. The kobolds interposed themselves instantly, moving to block the demon's way. Abernathy jerked awake and kicked Questor roughly. The wizard awoke as well and scrambled to his feet. The demon's helmeted head swung slowly about, and it's crimson eyes surveyed the company and the pine grove with studied caution.
Then it spoke. Ben could not understand anything of what was said, and the speech was over almost before it began. Questor hesitated, then looked back at him. "The Mark issues you a challenge. High Lord. He demands that you meet him in combat three dawns from now at the Heart."
Ben nodded wordlessly. What had been promised from the beginning was finally here. Time had run out. He was only half awake, still near exhaustion from his ordeal of the past several days, but he grasped the significance of the challenge instantly.
The Mark had had enough of him. The demon was angry.
But perhaps — just perhaps — the demon was worried, too. Questor had once told him that the demon always challenged at midwinter — and it was nowhere near midwinter yet. The demon was rushing things.
He thought about it a moment, tried to reason it through, then shook his head numbly. It didn't matter. He had made the decision to stay long ago, and nothing would change that decision now. It surprised him that his resolve was so strong. It gave him a good feeling. He nodded to the messenger. "I'll be there." The demon was gone in a swirl of mist. Ben stared after it a moment, then gazed off into the trees where the first light of dawn was still a faint silver tinge against the far horizons. "Go back to sleep," he told the others gently.
He settled down again by Willow, rested his cheek against her roughened trunk and closed his eyes.
Dawn had broken when he came awake once more. He was stretched full length upon the earth in the shadow of the aged pines. His head rested in Willow's lap and her arms cradled him. She had transformed back again. "Ben," she greeted softly.
He looked at her slender arms, her body and then her face. She was just as she had been when he had seen her that first night bathing in the waters of the Irrylyn. The color, the beauty, and the vibrancy had been restored. She was the vision he had wanted and been afraid to seek. Yet it was no longer the vision that mattered to him; it was the life inside. The repulsion, the fear, and the sense of alienation he had once felt were gone. They had been replaced by hope. He smiled. "I need you," he whispered and meant it.
"I know, Ben," she said to him. "I have always known," She bent her face to his and kissed him, and he reached up to draw her close.
The first thing Ben did that morning was to release Strabo from the spell of the Io Dust that bound the dragon to him. He gave Strabo his freedom on the condition that the dragon not hunt the Greensward or any other settled part of the valley or any of its citizens so long as Ben was King.
"The duration of your rule in Landover amounts to a splash of water in the ocean of my lifetime. Holiday," the dragon advised him coldly, eyes lidded against his thoughts. They stood together in the clearing where Strabo had waited the night.
Ben shrugged. "Then the condition should be easy to accept."
"Conditions from a human are never easy to accept, especially when the human is as deceitful as you."
"Flattery will gain you nothing more than I have already offered. Do you agree or not?"
The crusted snout split wide, teeth gleaming. "You risk the possibility that my word means nothing — that extracting it while the magic binds me renders it worthless!"
Ben sighed. "Yes or no?"
Strabo hissed, the sound rising up from deep within. "Yes!" He spread his leathered wings and arced his long neck skyward. "Anything to be free of you!" Then he hesitated and bent close. "Understand — this is not finished yet between you and me, Holiday. We will meet again another day and settle the debt owed me!"
He rose with a rush of beating wings until he was atop the trees, banked eastward, and disappeared into the rising sun. Ben watched him go and then turned away.
Questor Thews could not understand. First he was astonished, then angry, and finally just mystified. Whatever could the High Lord have been thinking? Why would he release Strabo like that? The dragon was a powerful ally, a weapon that none would dare to challenge, a lever which could be used to exact the pledges the High Lord so desperately needed!
"But that's precisely what's wrong with keeping him," Ben tried to explain it to the wizard. "I'd end up using him like a club; I'd have my pledges not because the people of Landover felt they should give them but because they were terrified of the dragon. That's no good — I don't want loyalty from fear! I want loyalty from respect! Besides, Strabo is a two-edged sword. Sooner or later the effects of the Io Dust are going to wear off anyway, and then what? He'd turn on me in a minute. No, Questor — better that I let him go now and take my chances."
"Aptly put, High Lord," the wizard snapped. "You will indeed take your chances. What happens to you when you face the Mark? Strabo could have protected you! You should at least have kept him until then!"
But Ben shook his head. "No, Questor," he answered softly. "This isn't the dragon's fight; it's mine. It always has been, I think."
He left the matter there, refusing to discuss it further with any of them. He had thought it through carefully. He had made up his mind. He had learned a few things he had not known earlier and deduced a few more. He saw clearly what a King of Landover must be if he were to have any value at all. He had come full circle in many respects from the time he had first entered the valley. He wanted his friends to understand, but he did not think he could explain it to them. Understanding would have to come another way.
Happily, there was no further opportunity to dwell on the subject right then. The River Master appeared, alerted by his people that something strange was going on in the grove of the old pines. Strabo had flown in toward midnight and flown out again that dawn. He brought with him a handful of humans, including the man named Holiday who claimed Landover's throne, the wizard Questor Thews, and the River Master's missing daughter. Ben greeted the River Master with apologies for the intrusion and a brief explanation of what had befallen them all during the past several weeks. He told the River Master that Willow had followed him at his invitation, that it was his oversight in not advising the sprite earlier, and that he wished the sylph to remain with him for a few days more. He asked that they meet again three dawns hence at the Heart.
He said nothing of the challenge issued by the Mark.
"What purpose will be served. High Lord, in meeting with you at the Heart?" the River Master asked pointedly. His people were all about them, faint shapes in the mist of the early dawn, eyes that glimmered in the haze of the trees.
"I will ask again your pledge to the throne of Landover," Ben answered. "I think that this time you will want to give it."
Skepticism and a hint of alarm reflected in the sprite's chiseled features, and the gills on his neck ceased their steady flutter. "I have given you my conditions for such a pledge," the River Master said softly. There was a warning note in his voice.
Ben kept his gaze steady. "I know."
The River Master nodded. "Very well. I will be there."
He embraced Willow briefly, gave his permission for her to stay on with Ben and was gone. His people disappeared with him, melting back into the forest gloom. Ben and the members of his little company were left alone.
Willow moved close, her hand closing about his. "He does not intend to give you his pledge, Ben," she whispered, lowering her voice so that the others could not hear.
Ben smiled ruefully. "I know. But I'm hoping that he won't have any choice."
It was time to be going. He dispatched Bunion to Rhyndweir castle with a message for Kallendbor and the other Lords of the Greensward. He had done as they had asked and rid them of Strabo. Now it was their turn. They were to meet him at the Heart three dawns hence and give him their pledge of loyalty.
Bunion disappeared into the forest wordlessly, and Ben and the remaining members of the little company turned homeward toward Sterling Silver.
It took them longer returning from Elderew and the lake country this time than it had before, because this time they traveled afoot. Ben didn't mind. It gave him time to think, and he had a great deal to think about. Willow walked with him as they traveled, staying close, saying little. Questor and Abernathy questioned him repeatedly about his plans for dealing with the Mark, but he put them off. The truth of the matter was he didn't have any plans yet, but he didn't want them to know that. It was better if they thought that he was simply being closemouthed.
He spent much of his time surveying the country they traveled through and imagining how it had been before the failing of the magic. His memory of the vision shown him by the fairies recalled itself often, a gleaming, wondrous painting where the mists, the gloom and the wilting of the land's life were absent. How long ago had this valley been like that, he wondered? How long before it could be made that way again? The vision of the fairies had been more than a memory; it had been a promise. He pondered the sluggish swirl of the deep mists that screened the sunshine and shrouded the mountains, the thinning groves of Bonnie Blues dotted with wilt and spotting, the lakes and rivers turned gray and clouded, and the meadows and grasslands grown sparse and wintry. He pondered the valley's people and their lives in a world turned suddenly harsh and unproductive. He thought again of the faces of those few that had appeared for his coronation — of the many who had lined the roads leading into Rhyndweir. That could all be changed if the failing of the magic could be halted.
A King to serve the land and lead her people would accomplish that end, Questor Thews believed. Twenty years of no King upon Landover's throne had caused the problem in the first place.
But the concept was a difficult one for Ben to grasp. Why would such a simple thing as the loss or gain of a King have so great an effect upon the life of this valley? A King was just a man. A King was just a figurehead. How could one man make such a difference?
It could, he decided finally, where the land took its life from the magic that had created it, and the magic was sustained by the rule of a King. Such a thing might not be possible in a world governed solely by natural laws, but it could be so here. The land took its life from the magic. Questor had told him so. Perhaps the land took its life from the King as well.
The implications of that possibility were staggering, and Ben could not begin to comprehend all of the ramifications that they suggested. Instead, he reduced their number to those relevant to his most immediate problem — staying alive. The magic failed without him; the land failed without the magic. There was a bond among the three. If he could understand it, he could save himself. He knew it instinctively. The fairies had not created Landover one day to see it fall apart the next simply because of the loss of a King. They had to have foreseen and provided a way to bring that King back again — a new King, a different King, but a King to rule and keep the magic strong.
But what provision had they made?
The first day for the journey back seemed endless. When night finally descended and the others of the little company slept, Ben lay awake, still thinking. He was awake a long time.
The second day passed more quickly, and by midday they had reached once more the island castle of Sterling Silver. Bunion was waiting at the gates, already returned from his journey to the Greensward. He spoke rapidly, punctuating his sentences with sharp gestures. Ben couldn't begin to follow him.
Questor interceded. "Your message was delivered, High Lord." His voice was bitter. "The Lords of the Greensward reply that they will come to the Heart as commanded — but they will postpone until then any decision as to whether or not they will pledge to the throne."
Ben grunted. "Hardly surprising." He ignored the look exchanged by the wizard and Abernathy and moved ahead through the entry. "Thanks for the effort, Bunion."
He walked quickly down the connecting passageway to the inner court and crossed, the others trailing. He had just stepped inside the front hall when a pair of bedraggled apparitions darted frantically from the shadows of an alcove and threw themselves at his feet.
"Great High Lord!"
"Mighty High Lord!"
Ben groaned in recognition. The G'home Gnomes Fillip and Sot fell to their knees before him, grovelling and whimpering so pitifully that it was embarrassing. Their fur was matted and spiked, their paws were caked with mud, and they had the look of something dredged from the sewers.
"Oh, High Lord, we thought you devoured by the dragon!" Fillip wailed.
"We thought you lost in the depths of the netherworld!" Sot cried.
"Ah, you have great magic, High Lord!" Fillip praised him.
"Yes, you have returned from the dead!" Sot declared.
Ben wanted to kick them into next week. "Will you kindly let go of me!" he ordered. They had fastened themselves to his pant legs and were kissing his feet. He tried to shake free, but the gnomes would not release their death grip. "Let go, already!" he snapped.
They fell back, still hugging the stone flooring, their lidded eyes peering up at him expectantly.
"Great High Lord," Fillip whispered.
"Mighty High..." Sot began.
Ben cut him short. "Parsnip, Bunion — get these two mud bunnies into a bath and don't let them up for air until you can tell what they are again." The kobolds dragged the G'home Gnomes from the foyer, still groveling. Ben sighed, suddenly weary. "Questor, I want you and Abernathy to take one last look through the castle histories. See if there is anything — anything at all — that refers to the way that Landover, her Kings and the magic are joined." He shook his head sadly. "I know we've been this route before; I know we haven't found anything, but... well, maybe we missed something..."He trailed off.
Questor nodded bravely. "Yes, High Lord, it is possible that we missed something. It doesn't hurt to look again."
He disappeared down the hallway with Abernathy in tow. Abernathy looked doubtful.
Ben stood alone in the foyer with Willow for a few moments after the others had gone, then took the sylph gently by the hand and climbed the tower stairs to the Landsview. He felt a need to explore the valley one last time — he bit his tongue at the thought — and he wanted the girl to go with him. They hadn't spoken much since her recovery from the transformation, but they had stayed close to each other. It helped him having her there. It gave him an assurance that he didn't entirely understand. It gave him strength.
He tried to tell her. "I want you to know something. Willow," he said as they stood together on the platform of the Landsview. "I don't know how all this is going to turn out, but I do know that, whichever way it goes, I'm the better by a long sight for having had you for a friend."
She did not reply. Her hand closed tightly over his. Together they grasped the railing, and the castle walls fell away into the clouded gray skies.
They were gone all afternoon.
Ben slept soundly that night and did not wake until midday. Questor met him on his way downstairs. The wizard looked exhausted.
"Don't tell me." Ben smiled sympathetically. "Let me guess."
"Guessing is not required, High Lord," Questor replied. "We worked all night, Abernathy and I, and we found nothing. I am sorry."
Ben put his arm around the sticklike frame. "Nothing to be sorry for — you tried. Go get some sleep. I'll see you for dinner."
He ate some fruit and cheese and drank some wine in the kitchen while Parsnip watched silently, then went alone to the chapel of the Paladin. He stayed there for some time, kneeling in the shadows, wondering what had become of the champion and why he would not return, trying to draw some small measure of understanding and strength from the armored shell that rested on the pedestal before him. Dreams and wishes paraded before his eyes, vague images in the musted air, and he let himself feel the sweetness of the life he had enjoyed. Old world and new, the good things recalled themselves and gave him peace.
He walked back through Sterling Silver in the late afternoon hours. He took his time, trailing silently through her halls and passageways, brushing her stone with his hands, feeling the warmth of her body. The magic that gave her life still burned somewhere deep within, but it was weakening. The Tarnish had grown worse; the discoloration had moved deeper within the castle walls. She was failing rapidly. He remembered the promise he had made to himself — that one day he would find a way to help her. He wondered now if he ever would.
He gathered his friends in the dining hall for dinner that evening — Willow, Questor, Abernathy, Bunion, Parsnip, Fillip. and Sot. There was little to eat. The castle larder was nearly empty and the magic could no longer produce the needed food. Everyone pretended the meal was fine. Conversation was subdued. No one complained; no one argued. They all worked very hard at avoiding any mention of what lay ahead.
When the meal was almost ended, Ben stood up. He had difficulty speaking. "I hope that you will excuse me, but I should try to get at least a few hours sleep before I, uh..." He stopped. "I thought I'd leave around midnight. I don't expect any of you to go with me. In fact, it might be better if you didn't. I appreciate the way you've all stood by me up to this point. I couldn't ask for better friends. I wish there was something I..."
"High Lord," Questor interrupted gently. He came to his feet, thin arms folding into his gray robes. "Please don't say anything more. We all decided earlier that we would come with you tomorrow. Good friends could do no less. Now why don't you go on to bed?"
They stared silently at him — the wizard, the scribe, the sylph, the kobolds, and the gnomes. He nodded slowly and smiled. "Thank you. Thank you all again."
He walked from the room and stood alone for a moment in the hall beyond. Then he climbed the stairs to his bedroom.
Willow came to wake him at midnight.
They stood together in the darkness of the bedroom after Ben had risen and held each other. Ben's eyes closed wearily and he let the warmth of the girl seep through him.
"I'm afraid of what's going to happen, Willow," he whispered to her. "Not of what might happen to me..." He cut himself short. "No, that's a lie — I'm scared to death of what might happen to me. But I'm more afraid of what might happen to Landover if the Mark kills me. If I fail to survive this confrontation, Landover may be lost. And I'm afraid I will fail, because I still don't know how to prevent him from winning!"
She hugged him tightly, and her voice was fierce. "Ben! You have to believe in yourself! You have accomplished so much more than anyone ever imagined that you would. The answers you need are there. You have found them before when you needed them; I think you can do so again."
He shook his head. "I don't have enough time left to find them, Willow. The Mark hasn't left me enough time."
"You will find the answers in the time that you have."
"Willow, listen to me." Ben moved his face away from hers. "Only one thing can prevent the Mark from killing me — only one. The Paladin. If the Paladin appears to defend me, I have a chance. It's possible that he might. He's saved me several times now since I came into the valley."
He bent close again. "But, Willow, he's a ghost! He lacks substance and strength! He's a shadow, and shadows don't frighten anyone for very long! I don't need a ghost — I need the real thing! And, damn it, I don't even know if the real thing still exists!"
Her green eyes were calm in the aftermath of his fury. "If he has come to you before, Ben, he will do so again." She paused. "Do you remember when I told you that you were the one promised me by the fates woven in the marriage bed of my parents? You did not believe me, but you have seen since that it was so. I told you something more, Ben. I told you I sensed you were different; I told you I believed you were meant to be King of Landover. I still believe that. And I believe that the Paladin will come to you again. I believe that he will protect you."
He looked at her for a very long time without speaking. Then he kissed her lightly on the mouth. "Guess there's only one way to find out."
He gave her a brave smile and took her hands in his. Together, they started for the door.
Dawn stalked the Heart on cat's feet; the first faint tinges of silver were beginning to lighten the eastern skies above the tree line. Ben and the members of his little company had arrived several hours earlier and were gathered now on the dais. Others had been arriving all night. The River Master was there, standing close against the screen of the forest, surrounded by dozens of his people, all faint shadows in the mist and night. The Lords of the Greensward were there as well, dressed in battle harness, bristling with arms. War horses stamped and knights stood close like iron statues. Fairy people and humans, they faced one another across the rows of white velvet kneeling pads and armrests, eyes watchful in the gloom and half-light.
Ben sat quietly on the throne at the center of the dais, Willow at one hand, Questor and Abernathy at the other. The kobolds crouched directly in front of him. Fillip and Sot were nowhere to be seen. The G'home Gnomes had vanished once more.
Tunneled down about twenty feet, Ben surmised with faint amusement.
"Abernathy." Ben turned abruptly to find his scribe.
The dog jumped at the sound of his voice, then collected himself and bowed stiffly. "Yes, High Lord?"
"Go to Kallendbor and the Lords of the Greensward, then to the River Master. Ask that they join me before the dais."
"Yes, High Lord."
He went immediately. Abernathy hadn't quarreled once with Questor since they had left the castle. Both were on their best behavior — both walking on eggshells. It made Ben more nervous than he would have been if they had simply acted normal.
"High Lord." Questor bent close, his voice a whisper. "It nears dawn. You wear no armor and you have no weapons. Let me suggest that you allow me to equip you with some of each — now."
Ben looked up at the scarecrow figure with his gray robes and colored scarfs, his wispish hair and beard, and his lined, anxious face and he smiled gently. "No, Questor. No weapons and no armor. They wouldn't do me any good against a creature like the Mark. I can't defeat him that way. I have to find another."
Questor Thews cleared his throat. "Do you happen to have such a way in mind, High Lord?"
Ben felt the cold that had settled deep within him burn sharply. "I might," he lied.
Questor stepped back. The shadows that cloaked the clearing were beginning to fade with the coming of daylight. Figures appeared from out of the gloom to either side — the Lords of the Greensward and the River Master and members of his family. Ben stood up and walked to the edge of the dais, stepping past the watchful kobolds. The iron forms of the Lords and the slim shadows of the fairies converged before him.
He took a deep breath. There was no point in mincing, words. "The Mark comes to challenge me at dawn," he told them quietly. "Will you stand with me against him?"
There was complete silence. Ben looked from one face to the next, then nodded. "Very well. Let me put it another way. Kallendbor, the Lords of the Greensward gave me their word that they would pledge to the throne if I rid them of the dragon Strabo. I have done so. He is banished from the Greensward and all of the settled parts of the valley. I ask you now for your pledge. If your word means anything, you will give it to me."
He waited. Kallendbor looked uncertain. "What guarantee have we that you have done as you say — that the dragon is gone for good?" demanded Strehan harshly.
He isn't gone for good, Ben was tempted to say. He's gone for as long as I'm King and not a moment more, so you ought to think seriously about helping me stay alive!
But he didn't say that. Instead, he ignored Strehan and kept his eyes on Kallendbor. "Once your pledge is given, I will command that the people of Greensward cease all violation of the waters that feed into and sustain the lake country. Your people will work with the people of the River Master to clean those waters and to keep them clean.
He turned. "You, River Master, will then fulfill your promise and give to me your pledge as well. And you will begin again to teach to the people of the Greensward the secrets of your healing magic. You will help them to understand."
He paused again, eyes fixed now on the chiseled face of the sprite. There was uncertainty in the River Master's face as well. No one said anything.
The wind brushed suddenly against his face, sharp and quick. From somewhere distant, there was a low rumble like thunder. Ben forced himself to remain outwardly calm. The dawn had begun to break against the skyline.
"No one," he said softly, "will be forced to stand with me against the Mark."
He felt Questor's hand clamp roughly on his arm, but he ignored it. The clearing had gone still but for the quickening of the wind and the growing sound of the thunder. Shadows faded into streaks of silver and rose. The people of the lake country slipped deeper into the forest gloom; the knights and their war horses began to grow restless.
"High Lord." Kallendbor came forward a step. His dark eyes were intense. "It matters nothing what promises passed between us. If the Mark has challenged you, you are a dead man. You would be so even if we chose to take your part in this. None of us — Lords or fairy people — can withstand the Mark. His is the strength that only the greatest magic can overcome. We lack such magic, all of us. Humans have never had it and the people of the lake country have long since lost it. Only the Paladin had such magic — and the Paladin is gone."
The River Master came toward as well. Those with him were glancing about apprehensively. The wind had risen to a low whistle and the thunder was beginning to reverberate through the forest earth. The clearing behind them was suddenly deserted, the rows of pads and rests like grave markers neatly placed.
"Fairy magic banished the demons centuries ago, High Lord. Fairy magic had kept them from this land. The talisman of that fairy magic is the Paladin, and none here can withstand the Iron Mark without the Paladin to aid us. I am sorry. High Lord, but this battle must be yours."
He turned and walked from the dais, his family hastening to follow.
"Strength to you, play-King," Kallendbor muttered, and then he wheeled away as well. The other Lords trailed wordless after, armor clanking.
Ben stood alone at the forefront of the dais and stared after them for a moment. Then he shook his head hopelessly. He guessed he hadn't really expected them to help, anyway.
Thunder shook the dais to its foundation, rolling through
the earth beneath in a long, sustained rumble of dissatisfaction. The dawn's faint silver light disappeared in a sudden press of shadows.
"High Lord — get back!" Questor was at his side, his gray robes whipping wildly in the wind. Willow appeared as well, and Abernathy and the kobolds. They surrounded him protectively, hands taking hold firmly. Bunion and Parsnip hissed ferociously.
The darkness thickened. "Stand away — all of you!" Ben shouted. "Stand down off the dais! Now!"
"No, High Lord!" Questor cried in response, his head shaking emphatically.
There was resistance from all, and he shrugged free of them. The wind began to howl furiously. "I said stand away, damn it! Get back away from me and do it now!"
Abernathy went. The kobolds bared their long teeth against the wind and darkness, and they hesitated still. Ben grasped Willow and shoved her into their hands, pushing all three aside. They went, a stricken Willow looking back frantically.
Questor Thews stood his ground. "I can help, High Lord! I have control over the magic now, and I...!"
Ben grasped his shoulders and swung him about, fighting the thrust of the wind as it broke free from the netherworld and stung with its force. "No, Questor! No one stands with me this time! Get off the dais at once!"
He propelled the wizard a good half-dozen feet with a single shove and motioned him to continue on. Questor looked back briefly, saw the determination in Ben's eyes, and went.
Ben stood alone. The Lords of the Greensward and their knights and the River Master and his fairies huddled in the shadows of the forest, shielding their faces against the darkness and wind. Questor and the others crouched down against the side of the dais. Flags snapped and rippled as the wind tore at them. Silver stanchions shuddered and bent. Thunder rolled in one continuous, frightening shudder.
Ben was shaking. Great special effects, he thought absurdly.
Shadows and mist swirled and joined at the far edge of the clearing, separating humans and fairies crouched within the trees. The thunder boomed sharply, as if exploding.
Then the demons appeared, a horde of dark, misshapen forms breaking from invisibility into being, spilling over from the black. Serpentine mounts snarled and pawed at the earth, and weapons and armor clanked and rattled like bones. The mass expanded and spread like a stain against the frail dawn light, pushing forward toward the dais, clogging the rows of kneeling pads and rests.
The thunder and the wind died away, and the sound of breathing and snarling filled the sudden stillness. The demons occupied almost the whole of the Heart. Ben Holiday and his small band of friends were an island in a sea of black forms.
A corridor opened at the army's center, and a massive, black, winged creature surged through the gap, half snake, half wolf, bearing on his back an armored nightmare. Ben took a deep breath and straightened resolutely.
The Iron Mark had come for him.
It was the most terrifying moment of Ben Holiday's life.
The Iron Mark advanced the wolf-serpent through the ranks of the demons, slowly closing the distance that separated them. The black armor was scarred and battered, but it gleamed wickedly in the half-light. Weapons jutted from their sheaths and bindings — swords, battle axes, daggers, and a half-dozen more. Serrated spines ran the length of the Mark's limbs and back, bristling like a porcupine's quills. The helmet with the death's head had the visor closed down;but through iron slits, eyes glimmered a bright crimson.
Ben had never noticed before. The Mark was at least eight feet tall. The Mark was huge.
The wolf-serpent lifted its crusted head, its massive jaws parted and its teeth bared. It hissed, the sound like steam released under enormous pressure, and a snake's tongue licked at the morning air.
All about, the breathing of the demons was a harsh and eager reply.
Ben was suddenly paralyzed. He had been frightened before by the things he had encountered and the dangers he had faced during his brief time in Landover — but never like this. He had thought he would be equal to this confrontation, and he was not. The Mark was going to kill him, and he didn't know how to stop it from happening. He was captive to his fear, frozen in the manner of an animal who has been brought to bay at last by its most persistent enemy. He would have run in that instant if he could have made himself do so, but he could not. He could only stand there, watching the demon advance on him, waiting for his inevitable destruction.
It was with great effort that he managed to reach within his tunic and clasp tightly the medallion.
The carved surface pressed its outline of island castle, rising sun and mounted knight into the palm of his hand. The medallion was the only hope he had, and he clung to it with the desperation of a drowning man clinging to a lifeline.
Help me, he prayed!
There was a sharp hiss of anticipation from the demons. The Mark slowed his wolf-serpent and the helmet with the death's head lifted watchfully.
It isn't too late — I can still escape, Ben screamed out in the silence of his mind. I can still use the medallion to save myself!
Something tugged at his memory then — something indefinable. Fear has many disguises, the fairies had warned. You must leam to recognize them. The words were just a nudge, but it was enough to ease the iron grip of his fear and let him reason again. The floodgates opened. Bits and pieces of conversations and events surrounding the medallion recalled themselves in a frantic rush. They spun and swirled like debris in a stream's sudden eddy, and he grasped for them desperately.
Willow's calm voice whispered to him in the midst of his confusion: The answers you need are there.
But, damn it, he couldn't find them!
Then the fingers of his memory closed about a single, small admonishment that he had nearly forgotten in the chaos of the days and weeks now past, and he snatched it clear of the others. It had come from Meeks, of all people. It had been contained in the letter that had accompanied the medallion when it was first given to him.
No one can take the medallion from you, the letter had said.
He repeated the words, sensing something important hidden in them, not yet understanding what it was. The medallion was the key. He had always known that. He had sworn his oath of office upon it. It was the symbol of his rule. It was recognized by all as the mark of his Kingship. It was the key to passage in and out of Landover. It was the link between Landover's Kings and the Paladin.
The Mark dug iron spurs sharply into the scaled body of the wolf-serpent, and the beast heaved forward once more, hissing with rage. The demon army came with it.
He cannot take the medallion from me, Ben decided suddenly. The Mark must have the medallion, but he cannot take it from me. Somehow, I know it is so. He waits for me to use it so that I will be gone from Landover forever. That is what he expects me to do. That is what he really wants.
Meeks had wanted that as well. All of his enemies seemed to want that.
And that was reason enough not to allow it.
His hand lifted the medallion clear of his tunic, and he let it fall gently against his chest, free of his clothing where all could see it. He would not remove it. He would not use it to escape. He would not leave Landover when he had worked so hard to stay. This was where he belonged, alive or dead. This was his home.
This was his commitment.
He thought suddenly, once again, of the Paladin.
The Iron Mark closed on him, and a lance with spikes jutting from its tip lowered toward his chest. Ben waited. He no longer felt the fear. He no longer felt anything but a renewed stubbornness and determination.
It was enough.
Light flashed at the far edge of the clearing, brilliant and white against the shadows and gloom. The Mark wheeled about and there was a low hiss of recognition from among the ranks of the demons.
The Paladin appeared out of the light. Ben shuddered. Something deep within drew him almost physically to the apparition — pulled him in the manner of an invisible magnet. It was as if the ghost were reaching for him.
The Paladin rode forward to the forest's edge and stopped. Behind him, the light died away. But the Paladin did not fade with the light as he had each time before. This time he remained.
Ben was twisting inside of himself, separating away from his being in a way he had not thought possible. He wanted to scream. What was happening? His mind spun. The demons seemed to have gone mad, crying out, shrieking, milling about as if they had lost all direction. The Mark spurred forward through their midst, his carrier grinding them underfoot as if they were blades of grass. Ben heard Questor cry out to him; he heard Willow cry out as well — and he heard the sound of his own voice calling back.
He recognized something grand and terrible then through his haze of confusion and physical distress. The Paladin was no longer a ghost. He was real!
He felt the medallion burn against his chest, a flare of silver light. He felt it turn to ice, then to fire and then to something that was neither. Then he watched it streak across the Heart to where the Paladin waited.
He watched himself be carried with it. There was just enough time left for a single, stunning revelation. There was one question he had never asked — one that none of them had asked. Who was the Paladin? Now he knew.
He was.
All he had ever needed to do to discover that was to give himself over to this land of magic when it truly meant something. All he had ever needed to do to bring the Paladin back was to forgo the option of escape and to commit finally and irrevocably to a decision to remain.
He was astride the Paladin's charger. Silver armor closed about him, encasing him in an iron shell. Clasps and fasteners snapped shut, clamps and screws tightened, and the world became a rush of memories. He was submerged within those memories, a swimmer fighting to come up for air. He lost himself in their flow. He changed and was born anew. He was from a thousand other times and places, and he had lived a thousand other lives. The memories were now his. He was a warrior whose skill in battle and combat experience had never been equalled. He was a champion who had never lost.
Ben Holiday ceased to be. Ben Holiday became the Paladin.
He was aware momentarily of the present King of Landover standing statuelike on the dais at the center of the Heart. Time and motion seemed to slow to a standstill. Then he spurred his horse forward, and he forgot everything but the monstrous black challenger that rose to meet him.
They met in a frightening clash of armor and weapons. The spike-studded lance of the Mark and his own of white oak splintered and broke apart. Their mounts screamed and shuddered with the force of the impact, then raced past each other and wheeled recklessly about. Fingers of metal plating and chain mail gripped the hafts of battle axes and the curving blades lifted into the dawn air.
They came at each other again. The Mark was a black monstrosity that dwarfed the worn and battered figure of the silver knight. It was an obvious mismatch. They thundered toward each other and collided in a resounding crash. Axe blades bit deep, lodging in metal joints, slicing through armor. Both riders lost their balance and careened wildly astride their chargers. They wheeled and broke apart, axes hammering. The Paladin was yanked violently backward and pulled from his horse. He fell, clinging to the harness straps of the wolf-serpent.
It seemed the end of him. The wolf-serpent twisted violently, reaching back with its jaws to finish him. He was just out of reach. The Iron Mark wielded his battle axe with both hands. The axe hammered down, blow after blow, as the Mark sought to shatter his enemy's helmet.
The Paladin dangled from the harness straps, twisting to avoid the terrible blows. He could not release his grip. If he were to fall backward, the weight of his armor would not let him rise again and he would be trampled to death. He groped blindly for his assailant, finding at last the weapons harness the demon wore strapped about his waist.
His fingers closed on the handle of a four-edge dirk. He wrenched the weapon free and buried it in the Mark's knee where the jointed metal armor gaped open. The Mark shuddered, and the battle axe dropped from his nerveless fingers. The Paladin grappled with the demon, trying to yank him off balance, seeking to pull him clear of the harness seat. The wolf-serpent wheeled wildly, hissing with rage as he felt his rider slipping. The Mark clung desperately to the reins and harness straps, kicking out at the Paladin. Kneeling pads and armrests shattered like deadwood as the combatants careened through the center of the Heart, and howls rose from the demons caught within.
Then abruptly the Paladin jerked the four-edged dirk from the Mark's armored knee and jammed it downward into the wolf-serpent's shoulder where it joined the scaled body. The monster reared and bolted, throwing both knight and demon to the ground in a crash of armor.
The Paladin landed on hands and knees, fighting to keep his balance. Dizziness washed through him. The Mark sprawled a dozen feet away, but he lurched unsteadily to his feet despite the massive weight of his armor. Both hands reached down to a giant broadsword sheathed at his waist.
The Paladin heaved himself upright then and freed his own broadsword just as the Mark reached him. Sword blades hammered into each other in a frightening clash of metal, the sound ringing out against the sudden stillness. The Paladin was thrust back by the heavier form of the Mark, yet kept his feet. Again they lunged and again the swords hammered down. Back and forth across the Heart the combatants staggered as the broadswords rose and fell in the half light.
The Paladin experienced a sudden, unfamiliar sensation. He was losing this battle.
Then the Mark feinted and reversed the swing of his broadsword so that it cut downward in a sweeping motion toward the Paladin's feet. It was a glancing blow that careened off the tarnished armor, yet it caught the knight by surprise and knocked him sideways. He went down heavily and his weapon spun out of reach. The Mark was atop him at once. The demon's giant broadsword arced downward, and the blade caught and lodged in the Paladin's shoulder plates, wedged between the joints. Had the Mark released the sword, it would have been the end of the Paladin. But the demon clung fast to the weapon, struggling to free it, refusing to let go. It gave the Paladin one last chance. Desperately he groped his way up the demon's armored body, grappling for the weapons harness once more.
His fingers closed about the haft of the iron-headed mace.
The Paladin reared up, one hand clinging to the Mark's armored body, the other bringing up the mace. The ridged crown crashed into the helmeted death's head and the Mark shuddered. The Paladin swung the weapon upward a second time, the whole of his strength behind the blow. The visor split wide, and the face within was a nightmare of blood and twisted features. Silver light flared from the body of the Paladin. Once more the mace rose and fell, and the demon's head disintegrated.
The Iron Mark tumbled to the earth, a shapeless mass of black metal. The Paladin rose slowly and stepped away. A stillness shrouded the Heart, a mantle of hushed silence that was its own terrifying sound. Then the wind rose with a howl, the thunder reverberated through the forest earth, the air swirled black with shadows and gloom, and the gateway to Abaddon opened suddenly about the demons. Howling and crying, they disappeared back into the netherworld.
The clearing stood empty once more. Gloom and shadows dissipated. The dawn's new light fell across the Paladin as he climbed back astride his charger. The light gleamed on armor that was no longer tarnished or worn, but like new. The light flared, reflecting momentarily from the knight to the medallion worn by Landover's King as he stood alone at the forefront of the dais.
Then the light faded and the Paladin was gone.
Ben Holiday breathed the morning air and felt the warmth of the sunlight on his body. He felt momentarily weightless in the light clothing of Landover's King, free once more from the Paladin's armor. Time and motion thawed and quickened until all was as it had been.
He was himself again. The dream, the nightmare, whichever part of both he had survived, was over.
Shadowy figures stirred within the forest trees and emerged into the Heart, humans and fairies, Lords and knights of the Greensward, and the River Master with his people of the lake country, picking their way carefully through the debris. Ben's friends appeared from their shelter at the base of the dais, stunned looks on their faces. Willow was smiling.
"High Lord..." Questor began helplessly and trailed off. Then slowly he knelt before the dais. "High Lord," he whispered.
Willow, Abernathy, and the kobolds knelt with him. Fillip and Sot reappeared, as if by magic, and they, too, knelt. All across the clearing the men of the Greensward and the men of fairy dropped to one knee — the River Master, Kallendbor, Strehan, the Lords of the Greensward, all that had come.
"High Lord," they acknowledged.
"High Lord," he whispered back.
It was all pretty simple after that. Even a neophyte monarch like Ben didn't have much difficulty figuring out what to do with all those astonished subjects. He got them back on their feet and marched them directly to Sterling Silver for a victory feast. Things might have been tough up until this morning and they might be tough again by tomorrow; but for the remainder of this day, at least, it looked like smooth sailing.
He ferried his friends, the River Master and his immediate family, and the Lords of the Greensward and their retainers across in the lake skimmer and left soldiers and assorted entourage to camp along the shoreline. It took several trips to bring everyone invited across, and he made a mental note to construct a bridge before the next get-together.
"There was a bridge in the old days, High Lord," Questor whispered surreptitiously, as if reading his thoughts, "but when the old King died, the people ceased coming to the castle, the army drifted away, and traffic eventually stopped altogether. The bridge fell into a terrible state of disrepair, boards cracked and rotted, bindings frayed, nails rusted — just a large clog in the lake that reflected the sorry state of the entire kingdom. I tried to salvage it with magic, High Lord, but things just didn't work out quite the way I had planned..."He stopped rambling and trailed off.
Ben's eyebrows lifted. "Things?"
Questor leaned closer. They were midway across the lake on their final trip. "I am afraid I sank the bridge. High Lord."
He peered reluctantly over the skimmer's bow. Ben peered with him. It was hard to keep from grinning, but he did.
He gathered his guests in the great hall and seated them about a series of tressel tables pulled together. He worried belatedly that Sterling Silver could not find the means to feed them all, but his fears were groundless. The castle reproduced provisions from her larder with newfound strength and determination — as if she could sense the victory that had been won — and there was food and drink enough for everyone, inside and out.
It was a marvelous feast — a celebration in which all shared. Food and drink were consumed with relish, toasts were exchanged and adventures recounted. There was a fellowship that transcended lingering skepticism; there was a strange sense of renewal. One by one those gathered rose to their feet, at Questor's urging, and pledged once more their loyalty and unconditional support to Landover's newest King.
"Long life, High Lord Ben Holiday," the River Master prayed. "May all your future successes match today's."
"May you keep the magic close and use it well," Kallendbor advised, the warning in his voice unmistakable.
"Strength and judgment, High Lord," wished Strehan, his brow clouded with a continuing mix of awe and doubt.
"Great High Lord!" Fillip cried.
"Mighty High Lord!" Sot echoed.
Ah, well — it was a mixed bag, but a welcome one. One after another, they gave him their pledges and good wishes, and Ben acknowledged each courteously. There was cause for optimism, no matter how difficult tomorrow might turn out to be. The Paladin was returned — brought back from a place in which no one would have thought to look, freed from the prison of Ben's own heart. The magic was returned to the valley, and Landover would begin its transformation back to the pastoral land it had once been. The changes would be slow, but they would come. The mist and gloom would clear and there would be sunlight again. The Tarnish would fade; Sterling Silver would be Castle Dracula no more. The blight that had stricken the Bonnie Blues would weaken and die. Forests, grasslands, and hills would heal. Lakes and rivers would come clean. Wildlife would flourish anew. Everything would be reborn.
And one day, a day far in the future, perhaps past the time that he would live, the golden vision of life in the valley that he had been shown by the fairies would come to pass.
It can happen, he told himself firmly. I need only believe. I need only remain true. I need only continue to work for it.
He rose when they had finished. "I am your servant, first and always-yours and the land's," he told them, his voice quiet. The noise died away and they turned to listen. "I am that to you and I ask that you be the same to each other. We have much to accomplish together. These things we shall do immediately. We shall cease polluting the waterways and ravaging the forestlands of our neighbors. We shall work with each other and teach each other what we can to protect and restore all the land. We shall devise commerce agreements that facilitate free trade between all our peoples. We shall institute public works programs for our roads and waterways. We shall revise our laws and establish courts to enforce them. We shall exchange ambassadors — here and with all of the peoples of the valley — and we shall convene regularly at Sterling Silver to air our grievances in a peaceful and constructive fashion."
He paused. "We shall find a way to be friends."
They toasted him, more for the thought than the feasibility of what he was proposing, he knew — but it was a start. There were other ideas to be implemented as well: a workable taxing system, a uniform currency exchange, a census, and various reclamation projects. He had ideas he hadn't even begun to think through thoroughly enough to propose yet. But the time would come. He would find a way to put them all to work.
He passed down the table, pausing by Kallendbor and the River Master. He bent close. "I rely on you, most of all, to stand by your promises. Each must help the other as you I have sworn you would. We are all allies, now."
There were solemn nods and murmured assurances. But a veil of doubt remained in their eyes. Neither was certain that Ben Holiday was the man to hold their enemies in check. Neither was convinced that he was the King they needed. His victory over the Mark was impressive; but it was only a single victory. They would wait and see.
Ben accepted that. At least he had their pledge. He would find a way to win their trust.
He thought back momentarily to the battle fought between the Paladin and the Mark. He had told no one what he had learned of the link between the knight-errant and himself. He wasn't sure yet if he ever would. He wondered if he could bring the Paladin back again if the knight were needed. He thought that he could. But it chilled him to think about the transformation he had undergone within that suit of iron — the feelings and emotions he had shared with his champion, the memories of battles and deaths over so many years. He shook his head. There would have to be a very compelling reason for him to call the Paladin back again...
Another toast was proposed by one of the Lords — his good health. He acknowledged it and drank. Count on it, he promised silently.
He switched subjects. He must begin work immediately on restoration of the Heart. So much had been damaged during the battle with the Mark; the ground had been torn, the white velvet kneeling pads and armrests had been destroyed, and the staffs of the flags and the tall stanchions had been shattered. The Heart must be put right again. It meant something special to them all, but to no one more than him.
"Ben." Willow left her seat and moved next to him. She lifted her wine glass. "Happiness, High Lord," she wished him, her voice soft against the background of noise.
He smiled. "I think I've found that happiness, Willow. You and the others have helped me find it."
"Is this true?" She looked at him carefully. "And does the pain of what you lost in your old life no longer haunt you, then?"
She spoke of Annie. A momentary image of his dead wife passed within his mind and then faded. His old life was over; he would not be going back to it. He felt he could accept that now. He could never forget Annie, but he could let her go.
"It no longer haunts me," he answered.
Her green eyes held his own. "Perhaps you will permit me to remain with you long enough to make certain, Ben Holiday?"
He nodded slowly. "I wouldn't want it any other way."
She bent close and kissed his forehead, his cheek and his mouth. The party continued unnoticed around them.
It was after midnight when the festivities ended and the guests began to retire to the rooms that had been prepared for them. Ben had finished saying good night to all who remained and was giving thought to the comforts of his own bed when Questor approached, looking a bit embarrassed.
"High Lord," he began and stopped. "High Lord, I regret troubling you with so small a problem at this hour, but it needs attending to, and I believe you best suited to deal with it." He cleared his throat. "It seems that one of the Lords brought a canine pet with him into Sterling Silver — quite a close member of the family, I am given to understand — and now it has disappeared."
Ben lifted his eyebrows. "A dog?"
Questor nodded. "I have said nothing to Abernathy..."
"I see." Ben glanced about. Fillip and Sot were nowhere in sight. "And you think...?"
"Merely a possibility, High Lord." Ben sighed. Tomorrow's troubles were already upon him
Ben sighed. Tomorrow's were already upon him. But then, of course, so was tomorrow. He grinned in spite of himself. "What do you say, Questor — let's go find out if the gnomes are planning a midnight snack."
High Lord Ben Holiday, King of Landover, began the new day rather earlier than expected.