But the demons held their place. The Mark stayed mounted, and none about him moved.
“Show them the medallion one time more!” Questor hissed beneath his breath.
Ben turned and held forth in his right hand the medallion, feeling with his fingers the outline of the mounted knight, the lake, castle, and rising sun. Demons cried softly in the ranks of black forms, and a few dropped down. But the Mark brought his arm back swiftly, beckoning all to stand where they were, to keep their feet. The death’s head turned back to Ben defiantly.
“Questor, it isn’t working!” Ben breathed from out of the side of his mouth.
There was sudden movement in the demon ranks. Astride his monstrous, winged carrier, the Mark was advancing through the screen of mist and shadows. The demons he led were coming with him.
Ben went cold. “Questor!”
But then there was a flare of light from across the Heart, as if something bright had caught the reflection of the sun. It broke from the edge of the forest shadows between the advancing demons and the dais on which Ben and his companions stood. The demons slowed, eyes shifting. Ben and his friends turned.
A horse and rider appeared from out of the mists.
Ben Holiday started. It was the knight he had encountered in the time passage between his world and this, the knight whose image was graven on the medallion, a battered and soiled iron statue as he sat astride his wearied horse. His lance rested upright in its boot cradle and his armored form was still. He might have been chiseled from stone.
“The Paladin!” Questor whispered in disbelief. “He has come back!”
The Mark rose in the harness that bound him to his mount, death’s head facing toward the knight. Demons shrank back within the mist and shadows all about him, and there were whimpers of uncertainty. Still the knight did not move.
“Questor, what’s happening?” Ben demanded, but the wizard shook his head wordlessly.
A moment longer the demons and the knight faced each other across the sunlit span of the Heart, poised like creatures at hunt. Then the Mark brought one arm upward, fist clenched, and the death’s head inclined, if only barely, toward Ben. Wheeling his mount, he turned back into the dark, the army he led turning with him. Shrieks and cries broke the stillness, the wind howled and hooves and boots thundered once more. The demons disappeared back into the air out of which they had come.
The mist and the gloom drew back again, and the sunlight returned. Ben blinked in disbelief. When he turned back once more to find the knight and his war horse, they had disappeared as well. The clearing was empty but for the five who stood upon the dais.
Then there was new movement in the shadows. The few farmers and herdsmen and their families, the hunters and the lone beggar slipped back into view, gathering hesitantly at the fringe of the trees. There was fear and wonder in their eyes. They came no further, but one by one they knelt in the forest earth.
Ben’s heart was pounding, and he was damp with sweat. He took a deep breath and wheeled on Questor. “I want to know what in the hell is going on, and I want to know right now!”
Questor Thews seemed genuinely at a loss for words for the first time since they had met. He started to say something, stopped, tried again, and shook his head. Ben glanced at the others. Abernathy was panting as if he had been run. The kobolds were crouched close, ears laid back, eyes slitted.
Ben seized Questor’s arm. “Answer me, damn it!”
“High Lord, I don’t… I am at a loss to explain…” The owlish face twisted as if caught in a vise. “I would never have believed…”
Ben brought his hand up quickly to cut him off. “For God’s sake, Questor, get hold of yourself, will you?”
The other nodded, straightening. “Yes, High Lord.”
“And answer the question!”
“High Lord, I…” He stopped again.
Abernathy’s shaggy head craned forward over one shoulder. “This should be interesting,” he offered. He appeared to have regained control of himself more quickly than the wizard.