In the Hall of the Dragon King

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The pyres, casting an eerie hue over all, now suddenly erupted in a shower of sparks and tiny cinders, becoming fountains of sparkling flame.

  The soldiers, scattered and confused, shrieked as one. The horses bolted and ran down the beach. In an instant of hesitation, the men dropped their weapons and melted away, some to flounder in the ocean, calling for the waves to cover them. Others streaked away along the strand to hide among the rocks. Within the space of three heartbeats, there was not a man to be seen upon the beach save the soldiers who had collapsed in the sand.

  “Move out!” cried Theido. Quentin found that when the call came, his legs were already moving as fast as they would go down the beach to the water’s edge.

  He threw himself up the rickety wooden ramp and over the rail of the small ship. He floundered across the deck to the mooring rope, which he struggled to unloose from its post. He did not look up when he felt Toli’s hands upon the rope, working feverishly with his own.

  “Are all on board?” called Theido.

  Ronsard, standing at the bottom of the ramp, his arms holding a load of swords and a shield or two, hollered back, “I cannot see Durwin. He must be coming . . .”

  Quentin glanced back up the strand toward the woods. In the green glare of the smoking pyres, he imagined he saw the great shape of a black dragon lumbering into the clearing. Two great circles of eyes burned into the night. Once more the water-freezing roar thundered. And then, inexplicably, Durwin emerged from the smoke, dancing down the path to the boat.

  40

  From his high parapet, Prince Jaspin watched the last-minute preparations for his coronation. Below, on the greens of Askelon, a hundred brightly colored pavilions had blossomed like early summer flowers. Lords and their ladies strolled the lawn while servants fluttered among them on errands of pending importance.

  The air fairly billowed with the fragrance of a thousand bouquets and the savory aroma of meat roasting in the pits and sweet delicacies being prepared for the high feast. Everywhere he looked, color and festivity met his gaze, and even to Jaspin’s jaded eye the sight dazzled and delighted.

  He rubbed his pudgy hands and hugged himself in paroxysms of pleasure.

  Jaspin had readily assumed the appearance of a king. Rings rattled on every finger; gold chains hung about his neck; his rotund form fleshed out a handsome brocaded jacket with wide, lacy sleeves; a flattened cap, embroidered with gold, perched upon his head; and his long brown hair had been curled for the occasion. On his feet he wore boots of gilded leather; his legs were stuffed into the finest stockings, which issued forth from his short velvet trousers, fastened at the knee with silver buttons. He, though he hated to admit it himself, had never looked so splendid.

  His entrance into the city the day before had been no less grand and majestic. All his lords, bedecked in their finest armor, astride their best horses, rode with him in triumphant procession through the town. The streets were thick with throngs of onlookers who sent their cheers aloft as the occasion required. To an objective ear the cheers could have been more effusive and heartfelt; nevertheless, to Jaspin, caught up as he was in his own pomp and circumstance, the tidings seemed the greatest possible adulation. In fact, the perceived acclaim so overwhelmed Prince Jaspin that he unaccountably loosened the strings of his purse and began flinging ducats of gold and silver into the throngs. This, of course, produced a heightened approval from the populace, most of whom made up the lower echelons of the realm. Those who had no great love for Jaspin, the more sincere citizens, stayed away from the procession altogether.

  A more objective eye would have noticed that his praise poured forth from the throats of what might be termed a scruffy rabble. But to Jaspin, they were lords and ladies, peers of nobility every one.

  After the parade there had been mummery and feasting and drinking far into the night. Jaspin, quite unlike himself, had retired early so as not to spoil his happy day with the wrath of the grape.

  And now he beamed down upon the scene of his glory like the sun itself, sending down a rare beneficence to all who passed beneath his scan.

  A shadow slipped fleetingly over his eyes, and he looked up to see a great bird gliding overhead. He turned and went back to his apartment to finish readying himself for the ceremonies soon to commence, which would continue for several days. He heard a croak from outside on the parapet and turned to see the bird he had glimpsed moments before alighting on the balustrade. Before he could think or speak, the bird changed, grew larger, its shape shifting and transforming. In a blink the dread form of Nimrood stood in the doorway, blocking out the sunlight streaming in. A cold finger of fear touched Jaspin’s heart.

  “What do you want?” the prince gasped.

  “Come, now. We both know what I want. Why pretend otherwise?” The sorcerer smiled his serpent’s smile. “I want what was promised me.” His tone had become an insinuating hiss.

  “What I promised? I promised you nothing more than I have already given. You wanted the king—I gave him to you. That was our agreement.”

  “And did you think I would be satisfied with that? How innocent you are.” Nimrood’s black eyes flashed with fire. His wild hair waved as if in a wind. “No! You promised a piece of your realm to any who would help you gain the throne. I have given you the throne. Given it to you, do you hear?” The wizard paced and raved. “Now I demand payment!”

  “And what payment would you have?” the prince asked cautiously. If pressed, he was prepared to rave as loudly as any mad magician, where it concerned his wealth.

  “Half your realm.” Nimrood smiled grotesquely. “Half your realm, my princeling.”

  “That you shall not have, by Azrael! You dare ask that? Be gone, you miserable—”

  The words suddenly clenched in his throat. Jaspin gazed in terror into Nimrood’s narrowed eyes, which flashed red in their depths. “I could crush you like a bug, Prince. Do not play with me. I am your master.

  “You wish to be king? Very well. You shall be king—but at my price.”

  “And if I refuse?” Jaspin whined miserably.

  “You cannot refuse.”

  “Can I not?” The prince became sullen. “What can stop me? In two days hence I will wear the crown. I will be king regardless.”

  “I wonder if your pretty regents would hand you the crown so readily if Eskevar suddenly appeared.”

  “You said he was dead. You sent his ring . . .”

  “As good as dead. He is close by; well hidden—you cannot find him. But he may be revived to claim his throne once more. Of that I assure you.”

  “You would not,” sneered the prince. “It would undo all you have done; all your schemes would come to naught.”

  “Ah, but the sight of two brothers locked in mortal combat would greatly cheer me. And I need not tell you who would win.” Nimrood’s eyes shone in triumph as he drew himself up to full height. “So which shall it be? The crown, or Eskevar’s return at a most inopportune moment?”

  “You black serpent!” Jaspin threw his hands into the air. “All right! All right! You shall have what you ask. But what am I to have of your surety? How will I know that you will do as you say?”

  “You have, Prince Jackal, the surety of what I will do if you cross me. Beyond that? Nothing. Nimrood does not condescend to any mortal.”

  Jaspin’s countenance reddened with rage, yet he dared not express his anger toward the necromancer. His fear formed the greater part of his discretion; he held his tongue.

  “So it is agreed,” soothed Nimrood. “I will return in a fortnight to receive the necessary titles to my new lands. And I will bring you a token, a reminder of your pledge . . . and what may be your fate if you renege.”

  Nimrood spun round, his cloak flying in tatters behind him. He hopped upon the casement step, leaped to the balustrade, and hurled himself off, to Jaspin’s horrified stare. But in the instant of his falling, his form changed, so quickly it seemed he had not changed at all but had always been the huge b
lack raven that lifted its wings to the sky.

  41

  Quentin had slept but little, and that had been restive. He had tossed and rolled in his sleep as in a fever. He heard voices call his name, and when he awoke and sat up, the voices vanished, leaving only the splash of the prow slicing the waves.

  He soon despaired of getting any rest and went to sit beside Durwin at the helm. “Steering by the stars is not difficult when you learn the knack,” Durwin replied to Quentin’s question. “Like everything else, it is all in knowing what to look for.”

  “Was there really a dragon on that beach tonight? I mean, I saw something. I cannot say what it was.”

  “It was an illusion. A vapor. Nothing more.”

  “Only that? But the terrible roaring, the lights, the smell.” Quentin wrinkled up his nose at the memory of it. “How did you accomplish that?”

  “As I said before—there are a few things a former wizard may do who has laid aside his power. It is permitted for me to intercede for good in times of need, but even then there is a price. Power always exacts its price. No, my greater powers are beyond my reach forever now, and it is for the best that I put them off.”

  Quentin was silent for a time considering this. When he spoke again, he asked, “Why did you?”

  “Lay aside my power? Very simple; a man may not serve two masters. The Power is a terrible master. It demands nothing less than the whole of your life.”

  “Who is the other master?”

  “That you already know. The other is the Most High God, the One. He demands your life as well. But in him there is life, rather than death—which is where the Power always leads in the end.”

  “Cannot the Power be used for good? Like tonight on the beach?”

  “Ah, yes. But that was only a very little power, that. The temptation is to use more and more, to give more and more of yourself to its mastery. But though you wield it, the Power is still your master. There can be no end but slavery and death. Sooner or later it destroys whatever it touches.”

  “Will it destroy you?” Quentin hated the thought, but he had to know.

  Durwin laughed softly. “Who knows? Perhaps.”

  “But you said you had given it up.”

  “So I have. But the Power was strong in me for many years. I used it as I desired for my own ends, and as I said, the Power exacts its price. I would have taken it again at Dekra, but wiser heads than mine counseled against this. They saw that even though a kingdom fell, it was not worth a soul. Even such a sorry soul as mine!” He laughed again.

  “But if you have put it aside, how can it harm you?”

  “Who is to say? Tonight on the beach I used but a remnant of my former abilities. Already I feel the urge to use more—it eats at your soul until there is nothing left. But the god is jealous. I have given over much that could have been his. Who is to say what I could have become if I had not wasted so much in the pursuit of the black arts.” Though Durwin spoke without sadness, Quentin thought he could sense a longing in the hermit’s voice. A longing for something once lost and never again to be recovered.

  “Now you, for example,” Durwin continued. He held the tiller in his hand and rested both easily across his knee as he spoke. “You have the best opportunity—you are still young. For me it is too late.”

  This saddened Quentin, but he knew what the hermit meant. “I know about the god,” he said. “The One.”

  “Do you? How?”

  “I met him in a vision. At Dekra. I received the Blessing of the Ariga from Yeseph and the elders. It was the night before we left.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Quentin related all that had happened to him at Dekra, culminating in the ceremony of the blessing. Durwin listened to Quentin’s story with full attention, nodding and making sounds of agreement.

  Quentin entered a second time into the feeling he had experienced that night. So long ago it seemed now. He described the Man of Light and the words he had spoken. “‘Your arm will be righteousness and your hand justice,’” quoted Quentin. In a sudden vivid flash, he entered again into the spirit of his vision. “‘I will be your strength and the light at your feet . . . Forsake me not and I will give you peace forever.’”

  “So it is,” breathed Durwin at last. “You have seen him. Now you know. Any who truly meet him cannot go back to the way they were before.”

  “Do you see him often?”

  “I have never seen him,” answered Durwin simply.

  “Never?” This shocked Quentin. He had assumed the hermit, of all people, to be on the most intimate terms with the Most High One.

  “No, never. But I did not need to see him to know of his presence, to learn his ways. It is enough for me that he has accepted me to be his servant. I am content.”

  “But I thought . . . You know so much about him.”

  “I suppose I do—know about him. He gives each man a special task in life and a blessing to carry it out. You have been chosen for a great work, and yours is a special blessing. He has never appeared to me. Yes, yours is a Blessing of Power, as Yeseph would say.”

  Quentin was dumbfounded. Durwin had never seen the god he served so faithfully. Durwin’s words echoed in his mind: It is enough . . . I am content.

  Quentin wrapped himself in these thoughts. He stirred only when he heard the creak of footsteps coming up beside him. “You two must get some sleep before this night is through,” said Theido. “I will take over now. Go and get some rest. It will be morning soon, and we will enter the port of Valdai at midday.” He laughed. “That is, if this dragon-slaying hermit has not steered us out to sea.”

  “Keep her bow aligned with that lowest star—that is our port star—and the moon over your right shoulder as it descends. That will bring us to our destination. Good night.”

  Three great ships dwarfed the harbor at Valdai. Warships, Ronsard said, though who they belonged to he could not tell; they were still too far out to see anything but the tall masts and wide hulls silhouetted against the hazy background of the port. But Ronsard and Trenn hung eagerly over the side of the ship, anxiously watching for the first symbol to present itself: a pennon, a banner, some insignia of color or shape they could recognize.

  “King Selric!” shouted Ronsard as they at last drew near enough to make out the flag that flew from the topmost mast. “That is his battle sign. I know it as well as my own.”

  “Aye, it looks to be Selric’s,” affirmed Trenn. “How long has it been since I’ve heard that name?”

  “What do you think?” asked Theido. “The first of the returning armies?”

  “Yes, yes! I had nearly forgotten,” shouted Ronsard jubilantly. Quentin, though he did not know why, was seized by the same spirit of elation that swept through his comrades. He watched as their small ship came about and entered the mouth of the harbor and drifted to its mooring place. Alongside the mighty warships, their tiny vessel with the black sails seemed like a clumsy toy. Quentin gawked openly at the huge hull and at the towering masts. He had never seen anything in the water so big. And there were three of them, each an exact copy of the other, showing in every bold and graceful line the strength and prowess of their owner.

  “How long have they been here?” asked Theido.

  “Not long, I think,” replied Ronsard. “They could not have been here when Quentin was here. He would have remembered.” Quentin nodded his agreement.

  “Aye, not long indeed!” shouted Trenn. “Look! The wherries are still unloading men. Selric’s army is going ashore.” He waved an arm, and those at the rail saw that he was right. The long rowing boats were still carrying soldiers to the wharf as the last ship was being unloaded.

  “If I know Selric,” cried Ronsard, “that is where he will be!” He nodded at the farthest ship. “He will be aboard until the last man has gone ashore. A commander to the end.”

  They made straight for Selric’s ship. And they found him, as Ronsard had predicted, watching over the disembarkation of his me
n from the taffrail of his ship. Upon seeing Theido, Ronsard, and the queen, he dashed down the ship’s ladder himself to welcome them aboard. At a word from Alinea, he invited them to join him in a conference in his personal quarters. There Alinea told him the story of Jaspin’s treachery and the king’s distress.

  Although no one had spoken it aloud, all assumed that Selric would be sympathetic to their plight. He was very much more than sympathetic. Selric, king of Drin, was beside himself with fury when he learned what had taken place while he and his armies endured the winter on the coast of Pelagia, waiting for the first fair winds of spring to sail for home.

  “The impudent rogue!” Selric shouted, smacking his fist into his outstretched palm as he paced about the commander’s quarters aboard ship. “His ambition has raced far ahead of his ability. This will cost him his head if I have anything to do with it!”

  “Then you will help us, my lord?” asked Alinea.

  “Help you! Of course I will help you, by all the gods of earth and sky!” Selric swore. The color had risen to his cheeks, matching his fiery red hair and inflaming his legendary temper.

  He continued, pacing furiously all the while. “Do you not know that Eskevar saved my life and the lives of my men many more times than I care to remember? Not a man among us would stand idle while the king needed help.”

  Quentin watched the drama intently. Selric was the first king he had ever seen. He was fascinated by this slim, commanding figure with the shocking red hair, who absolutely burst with restless energy. Selric could not remain still for an instant. Even when he was sitting, which he seldom did, his hands were reaching, gesturing; and all the while his eyes darted everywhere, never missing any detail, no matter how trivial.

  Now Selric was an angry lion on the prowl. Quentin shuddered within, wondering what it would be like to face this intense commander.

  “When can we leave?” asked Theido.