Free The Sword and the Flame by Stephen Lawhead Page B

your command, sir!”
    With that the knights abandoned their kill, mounted their horses, and fell into line behind Toli, who led them toward the place where he had encountered the attackers. They made their way as quickly as they could and at last reached the glade.
    It was quiet and cool in the shaded clearing. A number of tiny yellow butterflies flitted among the leaves, darting in and out of the falling beams of light that slanted in through the trees. A hermit thrush sang in the high treetops—a clear, sparkling, liquid sound, pure and sweet.
    Durwin still lay where they had left him, so still and peaceful he might have merely dozed off for a nap. No one spoke at first, overcome with the strangeness of the scene before them.
    The hermit lay dead, and yet seemed in such perfect peace that those who looked upon him could but stare in awe. His presence was strong in the place; each one felt it as if he had touched them.
    â€œSomeone should stay with him,” said Lord Bossit. “I will.”
    â€œNo,” replied Toli quietly. “He is safe here in the forest. Nothing can harm him now. Go back to the castle and lead the others here. The queen is bringing a bier. See that all is attended to.”
    â€œAs you say, my lord.” He left at once.
    â€œThe king rode to the south,” said Toli. He turned Riv and took up the trail. The other knights followed without a word.

    Quentin combed a wide swath through the forest, working first this way for half a league or more, and then cutting back the other way. But for all his care and vigilance, he failed to uncover any sign of the fleeing assassins.
    Still he pushed on, bending ever southward, with a feeling that this was the direction the abductors had chosen, though he knew they might well have taken another. The forest was huge; to cover it all would take scores of men and many months of diligent searching. As he rode, Quentin fought down the growing sense of futility and desperation that swelled within him, building up inside like a vile black broth set to the fire.
    He paused periodically to listen but detected only the normal, sleepy sounds of the wood. He went on.
    Then, quite without warning, Blazer stumbled down a short, steep bank of a hill, and Quentin found himself on the well-used southern road that led to Hinsenby and then bent southwest along the coast. He sat still in the saddle for a moment, scanning the road both ways. When nothing out of the ordinary presented itself to his gaze, he turned once more southward and continued on.
    After riding a little way he came to a dell where the road dipped to meet a stony-banked stream. Here he found his first clue, for in the dust of the road at the banks of the stream were a number of footprints, and the hoofprints of a horse.
    Whoever made those prints had emerged from the forest at this point, having followed the stream until it met the road. Across the stream the tracks led off down the way. Blazer splashed across the water, and Quentin leaned low in the saddle to examine the marks. It was difficult to tell anything for certain from these prints, for there were others all along the road.
    The hunt! thought Quentin. How dull I am . These and all the rest were made by people on their way to the festival. At once his hope, so quickly born, died and shrank away. But not entirely. Of all the various tracks in the dust, only a few were leading southward. All the others pointed toward the north and Askelon.
    Seizing this meager scrap of evidence, Quentin once again urged the sturdy Blazer onward. The steed flew over the wide road, and the king searched along its length for any trace of his son’s passing.

    â€œListen!” said one temple guard to the other. “Someone comes.”
    Both stopped and peered back behind them; on the road they could hear the tinkling jingle of tiny bells—such as a horse would wear on its tack.
    â€œYou get off the road. If they stop, draw sword and be