Ben’s mouth tightened. Now he must face both the Gorse and Abaddon’s demons. Even with Strabo to aid him, he did not much care for the odds.
“Strabo!” he called down to the dragon. A wicked yellow eye locked on him. “Take us down! Land right between them!”
The dragon hissed sharply, flattened out his approach, swept the battlefield once in a high, broad arc so that all could see him, and then settled slowly into the center of the meadow.
Ben, Horris Kew, and Abernathy scrambled down. It was like descending into a bizarre painting, a horrifically rendered version of Hell on Earth. The reddish dawn gave the whole of the grasslands a surreal look. Even the Bonnie Blues were turned to blood. Men, women, and children clustered at the edges of the trees and across the ridgeline north like the ghosts of the dead.
Ben turned toward the demons and exhaled slowly as he took in the size of their army. Too many. Far too many.
“My Lord, I think that maybe I have—” Horris Kew began, and was cut short as Abernathy’s hand clamped tightly about the back of his neck.
Ben turned to his scribe, who still clutched the Tangle Box tightly beneath his free arm. “Take the box and Horris and move to the lake,” Ben ordered his scribe. “Call for Questor to bring the lake skimmer and have him ferry you both across. Hurry!”
Abernathy hastened away, dragging a protesting Horris Kew after. Ben glanced at the demons anew. The Gorse had moved into the forefront of their ranks, black-cloaked and featureless even in the strange light. Ben moved out from the shadow of the dragon to face the demons. He reached into his tunic and held forth the medallion of Landover’s Kings. At his side, Strabo widened his maw and coughed sharply, an explosive sound. There was movement all up and down the clustered black ranks, an uneasiness, a hesitancy. It was one thing to face a Lord of the Greensward and his army. It was something else again to confront Holiday and Strabo as well.
“Kallendbor!” Ben called over his shoulder into the ranks of the Greensward army.
Almost immediately there was the sound of a rider approaching from behind. Ben turned. Kallendbor, armored head to foot with only his face showing beneath his lifted visor, wheeled to a stop atop his charger.
“High Lord,” he greeted, his red-bearded face pale, his eyes darting nervously to the dragon.
Ben stalked to meet him. “I know of your part in all this, Kallendbor,” he said curtly. “You will have to answer for it when this business is done.”
Kallendbor nodded. There was no apology in his piercing blue eyes. “I’ll answer if I must and if we are both alive at the end of this day.”
“Fair enough. For now, let’s concentrate on finding a way to dispatch the demons back to where they belong and the black-cloaked trickster with them. Do your men stand ready to fight?”
“We are at your service, High Lord.” There was no hesitation.
“Ride back then and wait for my signal,” Ben ordered.
Kallendbor saluted and galloped away. Unrepentant to the last, Ben thought. Some men refused to change.
He turned back toward the Gorse and the demons. A huge black rider had moved out in front of the others. The Mark. The others would follow its lead into battle. The demon leader stopped and stared across at Ben and Strabo.
The dragon’s crusted head swung about. “Call up the Paladin, Holiday. The demons grow edgy.”
Ben nodded. He was resigned to what must happen now, but despaired of it as well. Once again, he must summon the Paladin to do battle for him. Once again, there would be killing and destruction, and much of it would come at his hands. Another terrible battle, and he was powerless to stop it, helpless to do anything other than participate and hope that somehow he could find a way to shorten it. Faint hope, born of desperation and lack of choice. He felt Strabo’s eyes watching him. The Gorse was responsible for this and should be brought to account, but how could that be done? How powerful was this fairy creature? Very, he guessed, if the fairy people had gone to such extremes to lock it away in the Tangle Box and keep it there.