Unfortunately, at about this time, order was restored in the camp. The foot soldiers were taking up their positions, with the officers’ shouting for silence in the ranks. When the knight began to roast alive, his screams could be heard quite clearly. And so could the cry of “demons.”

“God save us!” Wilhelm breathed, shaken, and he handed the glass to his father.

Edward put it to his eye. His vision was not as clear as his son’s, and he had some trouble focusing. The eerie red glow emanating from the hands of one of the warriors was easy to spot, however. And then the next knight fell.

“But how are they killing them?” Wilhelm cried angrily. “They are not armed! Father, you don’t believe they are demons—”

“No,” said Edward grimly, handing back the glass. “They are men like us. Or rather, not like us. They are like your brother. The blood of dragons runs in their veins.”

“You believe in that and I believe in it,” Wilhelm said, though he didn’t sound quite as confident as he pretended. “But no one else will.”

Edward looked at the ranks of foot soldiers lined up, waiting the call to battle, and sighed deeply.

“Those are brave men down there, Father,” Wilhelm added, “stout and true. But how will they cope with a foe who fights with fire and brimstone?”

Abruptly Edward handed back the glass. “I can’t see a damn thing with that contraption. I’m going down there—”

“Father, wait!” Wilhelm clasped hold of Edward’s arm, as the king started to spur his horse. “Look! The knights have Marcus. They’re bringing him out!”

“That will be my lord Troeven’s doing,” remarked one of the barons. “He’s afraid of nothing this side of heaven or hell.”

“God speed them and protect them,” Edward prayed softly. “And protect my son.”

The young knight, Sir Reynard, had a firm hold on the prince, holding him with a grip strong as death. Grasping the reins tightly, he rode with his body hunched over the prince’s body, thus further protecting His Highness and making himself less a target.

The young knight rode hard. They all rode hard. The horses’ flanks were bloody from the spurs raking their flesh. The knights had to keep their mounts under control, however, for—bunched close as they were—a horse stumbling or bolting would mean disaster.