“Now the sword,” said Nimrood, breaking the unearthly silence. “Lay it on the altar.” His words stabbed like dagger points, penetrating to the furthest reaches of the temple yard so that every man there heard plainly what was said.
The Dragon King raised the sword once more and held it by the hilt. This sword, he thought, is the Shining One promised me in the dream long ago, and given to me by the hand of the Most High. It is the sword of the Most High himself; I cannot give it up to Nimrood. I cannot lay it upon that altar; to do so would be an act of worship to that depraved monster. I will not forsake the true God-not to save my life or the life of my son.
Quentin turned the sword in his hand and looked at it, and then at Nimrood. He rose to his feet once more.
“On your knees!” screamed Nimrood. “Bow down to me!”
Quentin raised the blade above his head in both hands and turned his face toward the heavens. “Most High God,” he said, his words ringing in the silence of the temple yard, “hear your servant. Show your power now; exalt yourself in the midst of your enemies. Let your justice burn like a flame in the land, that all men may worship the true god.”
“Your god is deaf, it seems,” scoffed Nimrood. “Ha! There is no true god. Pray to me, Dragon King! Perhaps I will grant your prayer!”
Quentin, eyes closed and face turned upward, did not listen to Nimrood’s mocking laughter, but instead prayed as fervently as ever he had in his life, pouring himself out before the Most High. And in that moment he felt the blade grow warm in his hand. He opened his eyes and looked skyward as the heavy black clouds parted and a single shaft of light fell upon him, striking the blade in his hand. He stood in a circle of golden light, and as he looked the light played along the tapering blade, winking in the gems at the hilt. The light was alive, and out of it a voice spoke, saying, “Throw down the altar! It should have been thrown down long ago.”
Suddenly fire fell from the sky, dropping through the air like burning rain to strike the sword. Zhaligkeer flashed, its flame rekindled and blazing with white heat into the gloom roundabout. The people could not bear the piercing brightness and threw their hands over their eyes to shut out the awful splendor of that holy fire.
The flame is back in the sword! thought Quentin. The Most High has not abandoned me! He is still with me; he never left! The realization burned through Quentin just as the flame burned in the sword.
“The sword! The sword!” howled Nimrood. “Give me the sword!”
“No!” shouted Quentin. It flashed with terrible brilliance, and fire seemed to leap from the shimmering blade, scattering light all around. “You shall never hold this blade.” With that, the King raised the Shining One over his head and brought it down with all his strength onto the massive stone altar.
There came a blinding flash and the sound of hot metal suddenly plunged into cold water as the scent of burning stone seared the air. The ground rumbled deep in the earth, and the stone slab of the altar tipped, tilted, and then slid sideways, cloven in half, the stone jagged and smoking from the place where the Shining One had bitten deep into the rock.
A cry went up from the crowd, a gasp from a thousand throats, and they drew back as one from the sight of their King standing before the crumbling altar with the flaming sword in his hand.
The High Priest threw his hands upward in horror and ran back up the steps into the temple, his priests fleeing with him. The temple guards threw down their weapons and ran after.
Nimrood’s arm went up; the dagger flashed in his hand. Toli, seeing his chance, lowered his head and charged into the sorcerer, knocking the boy from his grasp. Gerin sprawled forward, rolled to his feet, and dashed to his mother’s open arms. Bria swept him up and hugged the boy to her. The crowd surged forward around them.
“No!” screeched Nimrood at Toli. “Twice you have cheated me. Never again!” Toli leaped to the side, but with his hands bound could not keep his balance and fell backward onto the steps of the temple.
Like a cat the old wizard pounced on him and plunged the dagger into Toli’s chest, then fled up the steps to the High Temple.
FIFTY-THREE
THE GROUND rumbled and trembled under their feet, and the crowd in the temple yard screamed in terror as the ground shifted, cracking paving stones and tearing great gaping rents in the earth. The crevice which had opened beneath the broken altar spread toward the temple. Heedless of all else, Quentin flew to the temple steps shouting, “Theido! Ronsard! Hurry!” He reached Toli’s body, now crumpled upon the steps, and bent over it, plucking the cruel dagger from his chest and flinging it away.
From above him on the steps there came a rattling laughter. He glanced up and saw Nimrood standing over them, his head thrown back, the hateful sound bubbling up from his throat like the shriek of a carrion crow. Ronsard reached Quentin first. “Take Toli to safety,” the King ordered. He leaped to his feet and flew up the temple steps.
“Sire! Come back! It is falling!” cried the knight The fissure in the earth had now reached the steps and split them. The air trembled with the sound of churning earth and shattering stone. Roof tiles rained down, smashing on the flagging. The pillars swayed dangerously as the lintels cracked and gave way, sending huge chunks of stone careening downward. Quentin scrambled up the heaving steps, the sword bright in his hand. Nimrood saw him and screeched, “Stay back!” He whirled away and Quentin raced after him, catching the sorcerer by a trailing edge of his priest’s robe.
“Ach!” Nimrood fought to free himself from the robes, but only entangled himself further. Quentin held on with all his might and yanked, jerking the wizard off his feet. Desperately the old sorcerer writhed, squirming on the tilting floor like a snake. “Save me!” he hissed. “I will do anything-anything you ask. I can give you wealth, bring you glory! I will destroy your enemies! Save me!”
The blade flashed in Quentin’s hand, and the Shining One sang in the air, descending in a deadly arc, striking down upon the sorcerer’s neck. With one last shriek he fell back into a shriveled heap and lay still. Nimrood the Necromancer was dead.
Now stones and brickwork tumbled, and the pillars groaned as pieces of the roof caved in. Quentin could hear the thunderous roar as the heavy stone slabs collapsed, and the foundation beneath. His feet shook with the cataclysm. The great heart of stone on which the High Temple stood shuddered and convulsed.
Those inside the temple fell on their faces before the sacred rock and called upon the gods of old to save them: Ariel! Azrael! Zoar! Heoth! But the names fell from their lips dead and devoid of power. The floor rolled under them, and they watched in horror as a seam opened in the anointed face of the sacred rock. The stone splintered and popped as it crumbled before their eyes. The priests wailed and prostrated themselves, covering their heads with their robes.
In the temple yard the terrified populace swept through the gates and streamed down the winding trail to safety in the valley below. Dodging broken flags, Quentin ran back across the courtyard to where Toli’s body had been removed.
Theido and Ronsard looked on as Quentin sank to his knees beside the body of his friend. “Toli, forgive me!” he cried, snatching up a lifeless hand and clutching it to him. “I drove you from me. I blamed you for all that happened, and it was not your fault I have wronged you, my friend. I am sorry!” The King wept, tears flooding his eyes and splashing freely down his face.
The others came to stand by him; he felt Bria’s hands on his shoulders. “He is gone!” sobbed Quentin. “And I am to blame!”
Esme knelt down beside Quentin and laid a hand on his sleeve. “In Dekra I had a vision-a vision of what would happen here today.”