The journey from Narramoor, the holy city, to Askelon, the King’s stronghold, was a matter of two days by horse. The temple, according to the most ancient customs of the realm of Mensandor, was built in the high foothills overlooking the land it sheltered with its prayers. In the spring and early summer pilgrims came from all over the country to ask prayers for good crops and healthy livestock. Each town and village also had a small temple or prayerhouse which was presided over by one or more priests depending upon the need, but most worshippers preferred to make the pilgrimage to the High Temple at least once a year, more often if it could be arranged.

The road, winding down from the steep hills beneath the jagged old mountains of the Fiskill, was not overwide but it was well maintained-at least it had been up to the time of the King’s departure. Quentin remembered nothing of the King’s leave-taking, being but a babe in arms at the time. But, in the years since, he had heard retold the vivid accounts of the splendor of that parting.

The King, dressed in full battle regalia emblazoned with the royal insignia-a terrible, twisting red dragon-had led his loyal warriors out through the giant gates of his castle. Amidst a thousand fluttering banners and the call of a thousand trumpets from the high battlements, the King’s army marched through streets lined with cheering crowds and out onto the plains of Askelon. It was said the procession lasted half a day, so many men followed in his train.

The entourage had traveled to Hinsen-by-the-sea, or Hinsen-by as it was usually known, had boarded sturdy warships awaiting them in Hinsen harbor, and had sailed forth. The ships were provided by King Selric of the small island country of Drin, whose people were known to produce the world’s greatest sailors.