In the Hall of the Dragon King

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “It is no better than he deserves,” observed Ronsard. “I believe he will yet rue the day he ever laid eyes upon the sorcerer.”

  “This waiting is worse than fighting. Is there nothing we can do?”

  “Yes,” said Durwin. “Pray to the Most High. He is the only one who can save us now.”

  The unseen blow caught Quentin as he rolled away, grazing his shoulder and lifting him off his feet. He was flung headlong into the darkness to land sprawling on the floor of the tomb.

  He squirmed to his knees in an effort to rise, pulling himself along the edge of the stone bier. But before he could regain his feet, he felt something pull him back, dragging him down with a sinuous weight. Something hard grasped him by the waist. Quentin grabbed at it and touched a smooth yet rigid surface undulating under his grasp.

  A wave of horror and revulsion swept through him as he realized that he was locked in the crushing coils of a gigantic serpent.

  A coil shot around his arms, binding them to his sides. Another loop wrapped itself across his chest, and Quentin, struggling feebly to free himself, saw the terrible angular head rise slowly up before his face.

  Hideous yellow eyes burned with an unearthly light, regarding him with extreme menace. He could feel the coils tightening around him, squeezing the breath from his body.

  His hands scrabbled for a hold on the heavy scales of the serpent’s skin; his nails raked the snaky armor ineffectually. Each breath was a labor fraught with pain now. Very soon he would suffocate. He heard the rasping hiss of the snake as it leered closer and squeezed tighter.

  Quentin’s mind raced in a frenzy verging on panic. There must be a weapon, he thought. Lifting his eyes, which felt as if they would burst from the pressure of the serpent’s ever-tightening embrace, he chanced to see the shimmer of the king’s sword lying at his side along the slab.

  Quentin, growing weaker by the heartbeat, threw himself on his side beneath the bier. The coils shifted momentarily as he went down. He gulped air and forced his arm free before the relentless coils squeezed again.

  Slowly drawing his feet up under him, Quentin placed them against the stone trestle of the king’s bier. With a kick he sent himself tumbling heels over head as the serpent, hissing with a fury, struck.

  Quentin heard the monstrous jaws snap shut just above his ear. But he had gained his objective. His free arm was now on top as he lay on his side. He raised it toward the sword.

  The serpent noticed the movement. A lashing tail flicked out and lashed a coil around Quentin’s wrist and pulled it down in an iron grip.

  In the shimmering glow of the blue radiance, Quentin saw the awful outline of the black head rearing again, readying for the killing strike.

  Forcing every fiber of muscle to obey, he lifted his hand once more. His fingers ached as he stretched them toward the sword. He felt the serpent squeezing his wrist; his fingers became numb. He closed his eyes and cried out with the effort, feeling that his heart would rend. Then he felt the edge of the bier under his grasp. He held on.

  Inch by precious inch he clawed forward, his fingernails splitting as they tore against the stone. He could no longer breathe. His arm shook violently. Dizziness overwhelmed him, but he fought to remain clearheaded. Then, miraculously, the sword was in his hand. He grasped the cold steel blade and pulled it down. But his strength was gone. He could not raise the sword or strike out with it. Instead, the honed blade lay in his benumbed hand, and he merely looked at it glinting in the darkness as he felt the black mists of death gathering over him.

  He wanted to give up, to let go, to step into that peaceful calm that awaited him. He could hear a sound like the rush of wind or a thousand voices calling out. He had an image of clouds heaving up and then parting. He was moving through the clouds, falling.

  The clouds parted and he saw below him the battle lines on the plains of Askelon. There were his friends, dug in behind their ditch. He saw the charge and heard a clash of arms. Then the vision faded and he felt a warmth bathe his limbs as a deep sleepiness overtook him. He felt himself slipping away.

  “No!” he shouted, jerking himself back from the brink. “No-o-o!” his voice echoed back to him from the vaulted walls of the tomb.

  The sword lay limply in his slack hand. He grasped it and felt the steel cut into the flesh of his fingers. The pain sharpened his mind.

  He swiveled his head and saw the serpent’s head wavering above him. The monster moved, rolling him over to deliver the death blow. Quentin drew the sword to his breast.

  The serpent’s glowing eyes stared into his own; the black forked tongue flickered as the wicked head descended. In the same instant Quentin raised the sword.

  The head swung down. Quentin felt the sword suddenly wrenched from his hands. He heard a raging hiss and opened his eyes to see the sword sticking through the serpent’s mouth and out of the back of its head. The monster had impaled itself upon the sword.

  The coils loosened as the snake began to thrash upon the floor. In an instant Quentin had another arm free and was on his knees. He dragged himself aside as the serpent rolled into a seething ball to crush itself in its own coils. The creature writhed and squirmed as its movements grew more and more erratic.

  At last, with one final terrible convulsion, the serpent lay still.

  Quentin knelt, hands on the cold stone, dragging the cool air into his lungs in racking gulps. He heard a strange bubbling sizzle and glanced up to see the monstrous creature begin to shrivel and wriggle, melting together. Quentin stared. Green smoke issued from its body, covering it, and then it was gone. A trailing tendril of smoke curled up where the awful serpent had lain. And then that, too, vanished.

  Quentin rested, panting at the edge of the bier, and allowed life to return. His ribs ached, and his hand, where he had gripped the sword, stung. He looked down to see blood dripping from his fingers. He drew a long, shaky breath and turned toward the king. The eerie blue radiance that had surrounded the king’s body was gone—as if whatever life-force had clung to the remnant had been extinguished.

  A pang of grief stabbed through his heart, for it appeared to him that now, beyond all doubt, the king lay dead. No breath stirred the great chest. No presence remained.

  Quentin turned to go. There was nothing to be done.

  But to have found him and then to leave seemed to Quentin grievously inappropriate.

  Quentin bowed his head and offered up a prayer. “Father of Life,” he prayed, using Toli’s name for the god, “return the life of our king.” He thought for a moment and added, “Raise up a champion to lead us in victory over our enemies . . .” He stopped then because he could think of nothing more to say.

  He stepped close to the king’s body and reached out to touch the cold, lifeless face. As he extended his hand, a drop of blood fell from his fingertip and splashed onto the king’s lip.

  He stared at the crimson splotch.

  In the faint light from the tomb’s entrance, he imagined he saw color seeping out from the drop of blood, spreading over the features of the king. He stared transfixed as a wondrous change occurred.

  The king’s stiff features softened; the cold gray flesh warmed and took on the appearance of life. Quentin watched, not daring to move, not daring to blink or look away. He saw color return to the lifeless hands crossed upon the king’s breast. He saw the tiny beat of a pulse appear just below the jaw.

  A silver light seemed to emanate from the king’s countenance—a radiance that quickened the still features. It grew until Quentin could not bear to look upon it. He threw an arm over his eyes, and when he looked again the light was gone and he saw the quiver of an eyelid and heard the long sigh of air drawn in through the nostrils.

  Quentin dropped to his knees. Tears trickled down his cheeks to splatter in the dust of the vault. He bowed his head for a brief moment in silent thanksgiving, then heard a low moan and rose to his feet and bent over the king. Another sigh and King Eskevar opened his eyes.

  I
n all that followed, Quentin could never be certain what happened or in what order it happened, who spoke first or the exact words—everything seemed to happen at once.

  He remembered telling King Eskevar of the danger and of the battle taking place on the field. He remembered Eskevar rising off the slab unsteadily and falling in a crash to the floor. He remembered a feeling of inexpressible joy when the king placed a hand on his shoulder, gripped it tightly, and said, “Well done, brave knight.”

  They were then out of the crypt and moving toward Balder, Eskevar growing stronger with every stride. The sun shone high overhead, a fierce, hard ball, filling Quentin with hope and determination as he strode somewhat painfully across the green expanse.

  The two mounted Balder, Quentin sitting behind the king, filling in the details of his story as they rode off together.

  “There must be some who are loyal to me,” the king cried, his deep voice booming through the forest. “We shall find them!”

  Quentin could not help thinking that unless they found ten thousand who had not bowed a knee to Jaspin, their search was in vain.

  “First to Askelon,” said the king. “The common people will fight for their king in need. We will raise an army of farmers and merchants if we must.”

  They dodged through the forest and struck the road to Askelon. Eskevar rode easily in the saddle; Quentin bounced along behind, holding on as best he could.

  It seemed only moments before they were clattering through the streets of Askelon below the castle. The king struck for the center of town and raised himself in the saddle, sword held high in the common square.

  “Countrymen! Your king has returned!” His voice seemed to shake the very foundation of the castle rock itself.

  “Follow me!” he called. “Our kingdom is in peril! Bring sword and shield; bring rake and pike, spade and pitchfork. To arms! For Mensandor!”

  When the people heard this, they marveled and fell on their knees. The women cried and the men looked at him in astonishment. A great cry went up. “The king has returned! The Dragon King lives!”

  Men ran through the streets, bidding all to join the call to arms. A smith came running up, leading a white horse, already saddled and prancing in eager anticipation. Eskevar leaped onto the horse and waved his rude army on.

  They had scarcely left the city and taken up the road leading down to the plain before they met a large number of men dressed in dark green tunics and carrying pikes and longbows, with quivers full of new arrows slung about their shoulders.

  Eskevar, with Quentin right behind him, stopped in the road as the men approached. Upon seeing the king, the leader of these men kneeled, crying out in a loud voice, “Your faithful servant, Sire. My men are at your command.”

  The man and his manner seemed familiar to Quentin. Where had he seen them before? Then he remembered a night in Pelgrin, when the forest had come alive with bushmen. When the man rose again to his feet, Quentin recognized the tough, weathered face of Voss, but now the number of his brood had swelled to several hundred.

  “We heard there was fighting yonder,” said Voss, approaching his beloved king. “We thought we would come strike a blow for king and kingdom. We did not expect to be led into battle by the Dragon King himself.”

  “Your loyalty will be rewarded, for today you will see your king take sword against his enemies. Follow me!” The king wheeled his charger into the road and led his people into battle.

  With every step their numbers grew. Twice Quentin looked around and was amazed at what he saw: a surging sea of rough wooden pikes and pitchforks bristled in the sun; rakes, hoes, and other implements turned for the present into weapons for Mensandor’s Dragon King.

  A song soared up from bold and happy hearts and winged its way into the bright heavens:

  See the armies so arrayed,

  Line on line, ten thousand strong.

  See the Dragon King’s sharp blade,

  Rising to a song!

  See his enemies laid low!

  Hear our voices sing:

  Let glory crown the victor’s brow,

  In the Hall of the Dragon King!

  50

  Jaspin met Nimrood’s eyes with a look impossible to interpret: a mingling of relief and disappointment, of anguish and fleeting hope. “I . . . I don’t . . . understand . . . I . . . ,” Jaspin stammered.

  Nimrood’s eyes sparked lightning, and his voice cracked thunder. “The prize is gone! My prize has vanished!”

  He cast a hateful glance out across the plain where King Selric’s army waited. “Black is the day of your doom! Your bodies will be food for the carrion birds and your bones scattered to the ends of the earth! You will not escape Nimrood’s wrath now!”

  Then, seizing his marble rod, he held it aloft and wailed a long incantation into the air. The black stallion beneath him shook its mane and pawed the earth, whinnying its impatience. Nimrood paid no heed; he raised himself in the saddle and repeated the incantation. “Ratra Nictu deasori Maranna Rexis!”

  A cool breeze stirred the silk of Jaspin’s pavilion. The red and gold banners fluttered on their stanchions, and the pennons waved as a small dark cloud appeared in the sky. Nimrood continued his incantation, eyes closed, hissing out the fearful words.

  The wind rose and the banners swung and the pennons on the lances of the knights snapped smartly. The roiling cloud mushroomed, spreading into a churning, seething storm. The ropes of Jaspin’s silk pavilion sang in the whistling wind.

  The Legion of the Dead came riding on the wings of the storm.

  There were six of them—riding two abreast on snorting chargers. They rode from the south, galloping out of the forest. A murmur went up from the assembled armies, and as they drew nearer, those who stood in line with their approach fell back.

  Jaspin watched them come closer. Six knights in sable armor—the color of the darkest night—long black plumes floating from the crests of their helms. They looked neither right nor left, but galloped at a measured pace to halt directly before the pavilion. Their visors concealed any recognizable feature; no glint of eye sparkled from the dark slits.

  The earth plunged into an eerie twilight as the clouds boiled up and blotted out the sun. All grew deathly still. No one spoke; no one shouted; ten thousand men stood as one. Silent. The only sounds were the howl of the rising wind, the snap of the whipping flags, and the impatient blowing of the horses.

  At a gesture from Nimrood, the foremost of the knights of Nimrood’s fell Legion urged his mount forward to stand directly in front of Jaspin. The chink of the horse’s iron-shod hooves rang in Jaspin’s ears like a clang of a funeral knell. The pale usurper winced and shrank away from the black knight’s address.

  “The day is ours!” shouted the necromancer boldly so all gathered on the plain could hear. Then, turning to Jaspin, he said, “Look upon the face of death, and despair!”

  Jaspin watched in horror—his heart trembled within his breast and his blood ran to ice in his veins—as the appalling specter placed a gauntlet to its visor and slowly raised it. Jaspin closed his eyes and looked away.

  “See my handiwork!” cried the wizard.

  Jaspin turned again to meet the apparition’s gray, bloodless face. And as he cowered before it, the knight’s ashen lids slowly opened to regard Jaspin with a chilling stare. Jaspin gripped the carved arms of his throne and uttered a low cry: the knight had no eyes!

  “Away!” sobbed Jaspin.

  Durwin turned his face into the streaming wind. His knowing eyes watched the great black clouds rolling over the plains of Askelon and regarded the sky growing murky as the unnatural gloomy twilight descended upon the battlefield.

  “Nimrood has arrived. He is here, and his Legion with him,” said the hermit. “We must ready ourselves for the final assault.”

  “I am ready,” said Ronsard. His strong tone held no trace of fear. “I have faced death many times: he is too old an adversary for me to quail in his sight now.”

 
“Well said, Ronsard,” replied Theido. “I, too, am ready. Come what may, I see glory waiting for us all out there.” He nodded with eyes squinted toward the plain. “I mean to earn my share.”

  “Yes,” agreed King Selric, “and a place in men’s hearts wherever deeds of valor are storied round the fire.”

  Alinea, who had been long silent, now lifted her eyes to the horizon and looked her last upon the shimmering shape of Askelon’s far walls, misty in the distance. Trenn, his mouth set in a defiant frown, stood resolutely beside her.

  “I am a woman,” said the queen softly, “and no soldier. But for the love of my king, I will gladly take my place beside my gallant friends and gladly pledge my life to theirs.”

  Trenn said nothing, but his thick neck bulged as he tightened his grip on his sword and touched its hilt to his heart.

  Toli, who had returned from the forest after searching fruitless hours for his missing friend, grasped a longbow and fitted an arrow onto the taut gut. Beneath his dark aspect a smoldering fire kindled against those who had cut Quentin down.

  Into the stillness that had settled over the plain, the comrades-at-arms heard the growl of distant thunder marching through the heavens toward them. King Selric took his place at the head of his soldiers and sprang up onto a rock to address them, raising his hands and voice into the air.

  “Men of Drin, my warriors! Hear me! You have made me proud to be your king, and though our time grows short, I would ask no greater boon than to lead you into battle one last time.

  “The enemy is great, but even if he breaks our bodies, he will never vanquish the proud spirit that strengthens us to our end. Fight well, my friends. Look ahead, not behind. You will earn glory and honor today. Be worthy of it. Be strong. Do not be afraid.”

  The soldiers, still as statues, now raised sword and spear, and with a mighty shout a thousand voices rang out, “For glory! For honor! For our king!”

  Then, taking their swords, they began to beat on their shields and sing a battle song, chanting to the rhythmic cadence. With Selric in the lead, they ranged themselves into the shape of a spearhead and marched out onto the plain, there to await the foe.