In the Hall of the Dragon King

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Theido and Ronsard took their knights and drew up beside their fearless comrades, flanking each side of the formation. The warhorses tossed their heads and snorted as the wind gusted smoke from the burning woods across the battlefield.

  Again they heard the sound of drums as the enemy came forth. Theido looked round to catch the eye of Durwin to bid his friend a last farewell, but saw that the hermit had vanished again.

  Then, through the smoke rolling across the plain, the enemy emerged once more. This time they were led in close procession by the six black riders of Nimrood’s Legion of the Dead.

  They stopped. The drums quickened their tempo. The six lowered their lances, and at the trumpet’s blast they spurred their chargers forward.

  The Legion flew across the plain, their horses’ hooves striking sparks as they hurtled across the gap. Behind them came the knights of Jaspin’s forces, followed by the foot soldiers, who now began to run with a mighty shout.

  The men of King Selric’s army, rattling sword upon shield, steeled themselves for the clash. Theido and Ronsard launched their coursers to meet the charge.

  There was an enormous crash. The earth trembled with the shock.

  Dust billowed up to shroud the combatants from view. Horses screamed and the cold clang of steel rang out. When the dust parted, Selric saw that Theido and Ronsard and their riders had succeeded in lancing through their opponents with but little hurt to their numbers; what is more, they had succeeded in unhorsing one of the Legion. His horse lay screaming in agony on the field, but he came on, on foot.

  Theido, ignoring the sable knights, turned his attack inward upon the more assailable enemy. Jaspin’s own men, surprised at this strategy, nevertheless joined the battle. Instantly all were surrounded by the foot soldiers who thronged to the fight.

  “Away!” cried King Selric, and the trumpeter sounded the call as the stalwart thousand rushed to join the combat.

  Footmen struggled to pull down the armored knights—for as long as a knight held horse, he proved well-nigh invincible.

  The knights rained blows upon the ill-protected heads of the footmen and took on each in turn. Unsaddled knights grouped their comrades behind them and advanced like living shields once more into the struggle.

  Theido hacked his way into the thick of the strife, but his followers failed to keep pace and were cut off. He became stranded in an angry sea of enemy soldiers. Throwing his shield before him, he bore down, his arm rising and falling upon the necks of his attackers. Then he felt a jolt and glanced down to see an enemy spear jutting from his mount’s side. The horse reared screaming and plunged down, hooves flashing out, destroying the face of its assailant. Theido slumped to the ground with his dying horse as eager hands thrust out to haul him from the saddle.

  Ronsard saw his comrade fall and turned his charger into the thick of the fray. His sword sang through the air, and the whistling blade became a flashing rampart before him. Enemies flung themselves down to the ground rather than face his terrible sting.

  The fearless knight plunged into the tumult surrounding Theido, and in an instant three of the foe crumpled to the earth. As the enemy drew back, Ronsard reached down a hand and pulled Theido to his feet and up behind him on his horse. “Your hand is much appreciated, good friend,” said Theido.

  “A knight without a mount is a sorry sight. I do not like to see my friends looking so forlorn,” Ronsard replied as they bounded away.

  King Selric hewed a swathe before him as he and his men advanced to where Ronsard’s dauntless forces labored valiantly, though sorely beset. Many brave knights had fallen as their bodies felt the fatal sting of a blade thrust into some crease in their protection. By the time Selric reached the place, only one remained upon his steed, his reddened mace dripping with the gore of his luckless opponents. He saluted his king and his fallen brothers and turned once more to the havoc.

  Little by little the superior numbers of Jaspin’s troops and Nimrood’s Black Legion wore down the stout defenders. The cruel end approaching swiftly, King Selric signaled the remains of his tattered army to circle and form a wall of shields to stay the destroyer’s hand as long as possible.

  Theido, having regained a horse, led his cohort wading through the tangle in an effort to join Selric, who stood within the circle of the shields next to Alinea. “Fight on!” He urged them forward. “Fight on!”

  Suddenly, two of the dark Legion appeared side by side in his path. Theido dodged to the side to avoid them, but too late. A blade flicked out and caught him a raking blow on the arm. A deep gash opened up, and his sword spun to the ground as he felt the strength leave his hand.

  He spurred his mount and jerked the reins back, causing the horse to rear; the well-schooled animal lashed out with its forelegs. But the sable knights ducked aside. A blade flashed; Theido threw himself upon the horse’s neck and heard the swish of the sword as it chopped empty air where his head had been only an instant before.

  Theido desperately searched the ground for a weapon, throwing his buckler over his head to protect himself. A blow struck the small shield, nearly wrenching it from his grasp. Another hit home, rending the metal in two. Another blow and the buckler would be useless protection. Theido reeled in the saddle.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a curious sight. The sable knight to his left raised his sword above his head to deliver the killing stroke. But as the black hand began the downward arc, the arm suddenly went askew, careening off like a branch from a tree. An axe had severed it completely. Bloodlessly.

  He heard a whoop and saw Trenn’s blustery face beaming back at him. The next thing he knew, the axe had been thrust into his hand.

  The black rider on his right, heedless of his comrade’s plight, came on with whistling mace. Once, twice, the mace battered into Theido’s poor shield. The third time it struck; the mace bit through the metal and snagged the buckler away. Theido let it fly. In the moment of confusion while the fouled mace hung down with the weight of the crumpled buckler, Theido swung the axe up and with a mighty heave flung it into the foul knight’s breastplate.

  The war axe bit deep, cleaving the armor and neatly burying its head deep in the knight’s chest. No cry of pain came forth, no sign of weakening. Theido could not believe his eyes—an ordinary man would have dropped like a stone.

  But the blow did have effect, for Theido was able to spring away as the black creature tugged at the axe sticking out of its chest.

  Now Prince Jaspin’s army began to crush Selric’s dwindling numbers as they staunchly stood their ground. Again the courageous king rallied his men, but strength flagged and still the enemy came on.

  “I fear it is the end,” said Selric when Ronsard and Theido, abandoning their horses, came to stand beside the valiant warrior.

  “We have fought a good fight,” said Ronsard. “I am not ashamed to die this way.”

  “Nor I,” replied Theido. He gripped the hands of his friends as the foe opened a breach in the wall of shields. “To the death!” he shouted.

  At that moment an uncanny sound reached the battered comrades’ ears: the sound of hearty voices lifted in song. Then someone cried out, “It is the Dragon King!”

  The words struck their hearts like living sparks. Could it be true?

  “I see him!” someone called. “The Dragon King comes with his army!”

  All at once a shout went up. “The Dragon King lives! He has returned!” Then they heard the song streaming forth:

  See the armies so arrayed,

  Line on line, ten thousand strong.

  See the Dragon King’s sharp blade,

  Rising to a song!

  The attackers faltered and cast worried looks from one to another. Before they could think or move, there arose a whooshing sound, as of a mighty wind. Instantly the sky burst open. The gloom that hung like death over the field of combat fled as a brilliant ball of white light roared into the heavens.

  Then he was there: King Eskevar, sitting astride a gr
eat white charger, armor glittering in the blinding light, sword held high above his head.

  The sight was too much for Jaspin’s warriors. They cried out in terror and threw down their weapons. Some fell to the ground as if they had been struck down; others backed away, stumbling over those behind them.

  Jaspin’s commanders sought vainly to rally their cowering soldiers. Another streak tore through the air, and another fireball exploded in the sky, transforming the scene to deepest crimson. This decided the wavering forces; the line broke, and Jaspin’s army retreated. Thousands fled into the forest, shrieking as they ran.

  In moments the plain was in turmoil. The nobles who had traded their loyalty to Jaspin for heavy favors held to their grim task, but the men-at-arms, who had nothing to gain by staying, bolted and ran.

  Into this panic the Dragon King descended with his peasant army at his back. In the violent red glare of the fireball, these simple peasants with their rakes and hoes were suddenly transformed into armed giants, every one a knight in the eyes of the stricken attackers.

  A cry of terror rose from Jaspin’s forces as the Dragon King and his mysterious men-at-arms waded into battle.

  Nimrood, watching the contest from a distance, shrieked, “Stop, you dogs! They are only peasants! The victory is ours!” He spurred his horse onto the field in an effort to halt the rout. “Turn! Victory is ours, I say! Turn back and fight!”

  The wizard’s screams went unheeded. Pinched between the stubborn defiance of Selric’s soldiers and the Dragon King’s fierce vengeance, Jaspin’s army abandoned the field and fled to the woods and the river beyond. Only the nobles and their knights, and Nimrood and his Legion, remained to settle the issue so surely won bare moments before.

  The knights and the nobles came together and formed a wedge to thunder down upon Selric, hoping to scatter his men before turning their full attention upon Eskevar and his peasants.

  The wedge assembled and hurtled down the battlefield to crush the staunch defenders. A great whirring sound went up, and suddenly the air prickled with arrows. Voss and his foresters had taken up a position parallel to the flying wedge, where they loosed a stunning volley of arrows from their longbows.

  The arrows, thick as hail, rattled off the knights’ armor for the most part, though some by force or luck found a chink or a soft spot and did their work. The poor horses caught some of the missiles aimed for their riders, floundered, and dragged others down with them.

  The wedge broke apart and melted away.

  Nimrood saw this last attempt to turn the tide of battle falter and knew then that all was lost. He turned his horse and galloped away. He had not run far when a rider darting out of the nearby woods intercepted him.

  “Halt, wicked one!” cried the cloaked rider.

  “Ah, Durwin—failed wizard, failed priest. I should have recognized your childish tricks,” Nimrood hissed as the other’s horse flew up to bar his escape. “Out of my way, or I will shrivel you like a piece of rotten fruit! You, I should have disposed of long ago. I should have destroyed you all when I had you in my keep.”

  “Save your breath, Nimrood. There is nothing more you can do.”

  “No? Watch me!” The necromancer pointed his finger and drew a circle around himself in the air. Instantly fire blazed up to form a wall around him. Durwin toppled to the ground as his frightened mount, eyes showing white with terror, bucked and bounded away.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” cackled the sorcerer. “There is much this magician can do. Savor the death your meddling has won!”

  Nimrood raised his black stone rod and uttered a quick incantation. From outside the shimmering curtain of flames, Durwin saw the sorcerer’s rod begin to glow as red as new-forged iron. Then cruel Nimrood lowered the rod and leveled it upon the hermit. “Say farewell to this world, hermit! You saved your friends; now let your friends save you—if any are left alive!” he spat bitterly.

  Sparks like lightning bolts hissed from the rod, striking Durwin, who was instantly knocked to the ground. He fought back to his knees as the sorcerer laughed with glee. “That was just a foretaste. Now for the . . .” His voice faltered as he lowered the rod a second time to deliver the fatal stroke. From out of nowhere an arrow sang through the air and pierced the foul lord’s arm. The rod tumbled from his hand.

  Before Nimrood could turn, another arrow found its mark in his shoulder, and he fell from his horse. In two heartbeats Toli was standing over Durwin, notching yet another arrow onto his bowstring.

  He raised the bow, then bent its long length.

  “No! No!” the sorcerer screamed. “Don’t kill me! Ahh!”

  But the Jher ignored the necromancer’s pleas. The arrow flashed through the wall of flames and sank into the wizard’s black heart.

  The old sorcerer crumpled inward and became a black heap upon the field. He quivered and lay still.

  “At last he is gone,” said Durwin, dragging himself to his feet. His mantle smoked where the fire bolt had seared into his flesh. Toli offered his arm to the hermit, and together they turned to rejoin their comrades as the clash of battle, now diminishing rapidly, came quickly to an end.

  They had not walked ten paces when they heard a great sizzling sound. They turned to where Nimrood lay and saw his huddled black form burst into crackling flame; thick black soot rolled into the air. Then, impossibly, in the sputtering flames, they made out the form of a great black bird rising in the smoke.

  A moment later they watched as huge black wings slowly lifted away and flew into the woods. Drifting back to them came the rasping call of a raven.

  51

  At the demise of Nimrood, an uncanny transformation took place. The Legion of the Dead, bearing down upon King Selric and his men with flashing swords and whistling maces, suddenly faltered in their swift course. Their black-gauntleted hands went slack at the reins; they swung weakly in the saddle and plummeted to earth in a tempest of dust and horses’ flying hooves. The six black stallions galloped away across the plain, free at last. The terrible Legion lay still upon the earth.

  King Selric was the first to approach the six armored bodies as they lay. He crept close, his reddened blade held at the ready. Kneeling down over the first of the fallen knights, he glanced at the wondering faces of his men, now gathered around him, and slowly raised the helmet’s visor.

  The empty sockets of a skeleton’s skull stared back at him. Death’s Legion was no more.

  For a long time the battlefield lay wrapped in silence; a deep and reverent hush had fallen upon the ground hallowed with the blood of brave men. Then, one by one, all raised their heads to a jingling sound and beheld a sight that made their hearts soar with a happiness long denied: the Dragon King upon his great charger galloping into their midst, and Alinea his queen running to meet him.

  Eskevar threw off his helmet, Alinea threw aside her shield and blade, and then he caught her up in his strong arms and lifted her off her feet and onto his horse in a long embrace.

  The plain reverberated in tremendous, tumultuous, joyful acclaim. Tears of happiness streamed down besmudged faces. The Dragon King and his beautiful queen were at last reunited. The realm of Mensandor was secure.

  To Quentin, who had followed in the king’s wake, the scene seemed to take on the quality of one of his dreams. There were the king and queen riding into the cheering throng of their most loyal subjects. She, sitting before him on his saddle, appeared more radiant and beautiful than any woman he had ever seen. And though her auburn tresses tumbled awry and her features were grimy with soot and tears, he thought she looked the more lovely for it all. And the king, armor shining in the golden light of a glorious afternoon sun suddenly burning through the gloom, held his great sword high overhead and proclaimed the victory in a clear, triumphant voice.

  Then Quentin was in the arms of his friends. Toli was pulling him from his horse and crushing him in a fierce hug. Theido, one arm newly bandaged, was nevertheless pounding him on the back with the other, while Durwin gripp
ed his face with both big hands and fairly danced for joy. Ronsard, Trenn, and King Selric shook hands and laughed until tears ran from their eyes and their sides ached.

  Quentin, too overcome to speak—his voice seemed to have dried up—just beamed at them all, peering through bleary eyes that sparkled with happy tears. Never had he felt so wonderful, so complete.

  The king raised his voice to speak; the glad companions turned to hear him. His voice echoed over the plain, saying, “Today will be a day of mourning for our fallen comrades. Tonight their funeral pyres will light their brave souls’ homeward way. The armies of Heoth have this day claimed many fine soldiers—we will honor them as is befitting men of high valor.

  “But tomorrow . . . ,” the Dragon King continued. All eyes were upon him in rapt wonder; many still could not believe that he had indeed returned. “Tomorrow will be a day of celebration throughout the realm of Mensandor! The victory has been won!”

  At this, all on the plain of Askelon leaped to a shout, and songs of victory poured forth from all assembled there. Far into the night the songs continued, muted only during the lighting of the funeral pyres of the fallen countrymen.

  When at last the pyres had dwindled to glowing embers, Quentin and the others started back to Askelon. Quentin watched as over the darkened field the funeral fires twinkled and winked out one by one as if they were stars extinguishing themselves forever.

  The next day was a day Quentin treasured forever. He awakened to fine bright sunlight streaming in through an open window on a breeze perfumed by the fresh scent of wildflowers. He rubbed his eyes and remembered he had spent the night in Askelon Castle.

  Jumping up, he found that his clothes had been removed and in their place were the rich garments of a young prince: a tunic of white samite with silver buttons and royal blue trousers, and a richly embroidered cloak woven with threads of gold so that it sparkled in the sunlight as he turned it over in his hands. There was a golden brooch in the shape of a stag’s head and a golden chain to fasten the cloak. He had never seen clothes this wonderful. And shoes! Fine leather boots that fit him perfectly.