In the Hall of the Dragon King

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Of leaving let

  No more be spoken

  Till I have known

  You by your token.”

  The ancient oracle held out her hand and propped her chin on her staff and waited. She looked like a bent and gnarled tree on a withered stump, offering a lonely branch. Her ragged clothing fluttered in the breeze like leaves.

  “I do not have a token, old mother,” said Esme, thinking fast. It did not do to upset an oracle. Especially one of the caste who called themselves the Daughters of Orphe, for they were very powerful and wise. “But let me offer a blessing in your name when next I come to a shrine.”

  The hag threw back her head and laughed, and Esme saw two lonely brown teeth clinging like lichen to their place in the elderly jaw. The old seeress’s laughter rang like the clatter of hail in an empty pot.

  “Of blessings I

  Have little need

  Bless me instead

  With a noble deed.”

  Esme started at the old woman’s use of the word noble. She asked suspiciously, “What deed would you have me perform?”

  “The rabbit caught

  Within your briar,

  Tastes the better

  When aroast with fire.”

  The old woman crooked a knobby finger along the stream behind them. Esme followed it with her eyes and saw a hawthorn thicket rustling vigorously as if something were indeed caught within it.

  “You would have me cook you a meal? This is the deed you require?” Esme did not like the idea; she was anxious to resume her journey. The country was not safe; the enemy prowled the hills at will. She had had two encounters already and did not welcome a third. She wished she had some item of value she could give the hag and be on her way. “Very well,” she said slowly, and reluctantly went to retrieve the rabbit she knew she would find caught among the thorns.

  Orphe’s daughter turned and followed her with sightless sockets. She smiled, and the wrinkled old face contorted in a shrewd, lipless grimace. She mumbled happily to herself and fluttered like a crippled bird to perch herself upon a nearby rock to wait.

  Esme had no difficulty catching the rabbit. She could see it struggling in the thicket. Reaching in carefully, she pulled it out by the scruff of the neck. She could feel its tiny heart beating madly as she held it close. It gave a terrified kick and leaped out of her arms. Esme watched as it bounded away, afraid that she had lost it and would now be cursed by the oracle for failing in her deed.

  But the rabbit, a plump hare, gave two faltering jumps, then pitched forward—dead. Esme ran to it and picked it up. The racing heart was still. She took her dagger and cut off its head to bleed it. She left it dangling by its hind legs from a branch while she went in search of wood to make a fire.

  When at last the fire was crackling and the skinned rabbit gutted and roasting on a spit, Esme went to the seeress and announced, “Your meal will be ready soon, old mother. And I have found you an apple to eat with your meat.” The apple she had thoughtfully peeled and diced into a wooden bowl that she had retrieved from Toli’s pack behind the saddle. She had then ground the large golden globe to mash with the handle of her dagger.

  The hag said nothing but hopped nearer the fire and seated herself. Esme went to the stream and filled a second bowl with water.

  “Perhaps Orphe’s daughter would care to wash her hands before eating,” Esme said gently, holding the bowl before her.

  The old woman nodded regally and dipped her hands daintily into the bowl and rubbed them together. The water turned murky with dirt. The old woman then wiped her wet hands on her filthy clothes and smiled.

  Esme fetched her another bowl of water, took the cooked meat from the spit, and cut it into strips that she shredded and chopped. “Your meal, my lady,” said Esme, for the oracle had assumed a queenly air as she was presented with the bowl of apple and rabbit, thoroughly minced.

  Esme withdrew to watch the old woman dine with obvious pleasure, licking her fingers and smacking her lips. When she had finished, she held out the bowl for more. Esme filled it again and sat down beside her to wait. The sun reached its zenith, dwindling the shadows in the glade to nothing, and still the old woman hunkered over her bowl. Esme clasped her hands around her knees and forced herself to wait as patiently as possible.

  At last the old woman had eaten her fill. She placed the bowls on the ground beside her and rose up with much creaking and snapping of joints. She shook herself forward to stand before Esme and leaned once more on her staff. This she did with such surety of motion and without hesitation that Esme realized for the first time that the hag saw as much with her inner eyes as others did with perfect vision. She shuddered to think that as a child the woman had probably had her eyes put out to further enhance her strange gift.

  “The deed was done

  And with thoughtful art.

  As best befits

  A most noble heart.

  By this I know

  As by a gold ring,

  Princess ye are

  And your father king.”

  Esme gasped and jumped to her feet. The hag had spoken rightly, but it frightened her to have her secret so easily known.

  “You see much that cannot be seen with eyes alone, Priestess. Since I have served you as you asked, allow me to leave with your blessing.”

  “A blessing ye ask

  And this ye receive,

  Your secret safe

  If none ye deceive.

  Full rare is she

  Whose safety would spend

  In risking death

  For love of a friend.

  But this ye do And this will be found:

  Your errand done

  When two are unbound.”

  The old woman turned and scuttled away. Esme felt a nudge at her elbow and realized that Riv had come to her and was anxious to be off and away from the strange old woman.

  Esme climbed into the saddle and watched the shapeless bundle of rags hop from stone to stone back across the stream. “Thank you for the blessing, Daughter of Orphe. May your prophecy be true.”

  At that the hag stopped and turned once more toward Esme. She raised her crooked staff overhead with both hands and turned around three times very fast. Esme wondered that she did not fall off her precarious perch in the middle of the stream.

  The old woman’s rasping voice rose to fill all the hollow.

  “I speak what is,

  And not what may be.

  But since you ask,

  Hear my prophecy!”

  The oracle raised her face toward the sky and muttered a long incantation while the staff waved back and forth over her head. Then she brought the knobby head of the rod down with a crack upon the stone where she stood. Her hand shot into the air, fingers spread like a claw. Her words echoed in the dell.

  “See ye the sword

  And do not yield it!

  If foe be slain,

  A king must wield it.”

  With a skip and a jump, the hag disappeared as quickly and as mysteriously as she had come. But long after she was gone, her words rang in Esme’s ears like the clear peal of a bell.

  16

  Quentin hung limply from the wagon wheel, his mind benumbed with the pain drumming through every extremity of his broken body. He whimpered softly, unaware that he was making any sound at all—unaware of anything but the throbbing, insistent agony.

  All day long the wheel had spun—over rock and root, through dust and deep water. And Quentin, lashed to the wheel, had been slowly tortured into insensibility. He did not notice when the wheel finally stopped, nor when the sun set, nor when the night brought an end to his torture.

  He hung on the wheel and whimpered softly and pitifully as darkness deepened around him.

  Amid the ordered confusion of Nin’s army making camp for the night, the moon rose fair and full, and with it the Wolf Star. Quentin gazed unblinking at the moon with unseeing eyes. Some small part of his mind watched it curiously, a frightened
animal peering out from a cave where it had retreated to escape the hunters.

  After a long time it seemed to Quentin that the moon was coming toward him, leaving its course in the black dome of heaven to come closer and closer. He could see it weaving over him, shining with a gentle light. It had two dark eyes that watched strangely. He wanted to reach out and place his hand against its smooth, luminous surface, but his hands would not obey. Then the moon disappeared.

  Years passed, or were they moments? Quentin next felt something cool touch his forehead. He opened his eyes and saw that the moon had come back. It was looking at him and whispering to him, but he could not hear the words, though they buzzed softly in his ears. He struggled to lift his head to speak, but lacked the strength, so simply allowed the moon to comfort him with its cool touch.

  “Kenta, can your hear me? It is Toli. Kenta . . .”

  Quentin blinked his eyes and peered dully back at the round, shining face of the moon. He opened his mouth to speak, but could not remember how to form the words.

  “Do not try to speak. Just listen to me. I have come to free you. Kenta, can you hear me?”

  Quentin moaned. Why was this moon so persistent? What did it want? He wanted only to drift back into the soothing void of unconsciousness. “Here is some water.” He felt something press against his lips, and cool liquid spilled gently into his mouth. He swallowed feebly and then again. “Drink it slowly,” came the whisper.

  Next Quentin felt something tugging at his hand. He felt it, though it seemed to him that his hand was far away and no longer a part of him. When the hand was free, it fell limp and useless to dangle at his side. He watched as the moon stooped to slice through the cords that bound his feet. Then the other hand swung free, and he pitched forward onto his knees and into the solid arms of the moon, who whispered in his ear, “Can you move?”

  Quentin made no answer. He felt himself rolled to the ground gently and then half lifted, half dragged under the shelter of the wagon. His head was raised, and the cool liquid poured into his mouth. Then he was laid back down, and Toli fell to rubbing some life back into his friend’s mangled limbs. He sank once more into peaceful oblivion.

  “Kenta, wake up.” The voice was the barest of whispers. Warm breath tickled his ear. “It is time to go.”

  “Toli?” The word was a slurred moan.

  “Shh! Not so loud. I am here. Thank the God you are alive. I thought I had lost you.”

  “What has happened! Ohhh . . .” His shoulder had begun throbbing again mercilessly and the pain and the night chill revived him somewhat. “Where . . . where am I?”

  “There is no time, Kenta. It will be morning soon. We must get away now. Can you move?”

  “I—I do not know. I do not think so.”

  “You must try. Come, I will help you.” Toli gently lifted his master to a sitting position, but even this effort caused black waves of dizziness to wash over Quentin. He moaned again and could not restrain it.

  “I think your right arm is broken, Kenta. Hold it close to your side, and try not to move it.”

  “I cannot feel anything. But my shoulder . . . ahh!” Toli had placed his hands under Quentin’s arm to drag him from beneath the wagon.

  “The soldiers are asleep, but there are sentries around the perimeter. They are careless, for they are not expecting an encounter this night. We have a chance. Can you stand?”

  “I . . .” With Toli’s help he struggled to his feet, then swayed uncertainly. The pain took his breath away.

  “I will hold you, but we must move now.” Toli guided his first faltering steps as Quentin stumbled helplessly forward, trying to make his legs move in harmony. It was no use—he collapsed not two steps from where they started.

  “Good,” grunted Toli. “We try again. Lean on me.” He raised Quentin back to his feet, and they started off again.

  Quentin tried to raise his head, but searing fireballs of pain burned through his brain with the effort. He let his head wobble upon his chest as Toli propelled them forward. The earth felt strange beneath his feet, as if it were rolling away from him with every step. His legs kept entangling themselves and tripping him, but somehow Toli kept them both upright and moving.

  “Ahead is a gully—maybe fifty paces. We will be hidden there. We can rest before moving again. But we must be as far away from here as possible before daylight.”

  They lurched through the darkness as Toli’s night-hawk vision kept watch for signs of discovery. They were moving away from the camp; the wagons stood between them and the huddled masses of sleeping enemy soldiers. But ahead lay the circle of sentries at their posts.

  The gully, little more than a weedy depression carved in the ground, opened before them, and Quentin slid down the side to lie panting on his back when they reached it. His head ached, and dark shapes, like the wings of ravens, swarmed before his eyes.

  “Listen,” Toli said. He crawled to the rim of the gully to look back toward the wagons. “I think they have discovered our escape. Someone is moving around the wagon. We must move on quickly.”

  He lifted Quentin to his feet, and crouching as low as could be managed, they staggered off again.

  Quentin concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and staying upright; Toli bore the responsibility for keeping them moving. It was all Quentin could do not to cry out in pain when his shoulder was jostled.

  “There are trees up ahead. If we can reach them, perhaps we can rest again.”

  As Toli spoke, they heard a shout behind them and the rattle of men running. “They know!” cried Toli, pulling them forward.

  The trees loomed up as a black mass hurled against a black sky. The moon had set long ago; Toli had chosen this, the darkest hour of night, for their escape. Twice Quentin stumbled and fell full length to the ground, and Toli could not prevent it. Each time Quentin gamely hauled himself back to his feet, though the agony blinded him.

  Somehow they reached the trees. Toli propped Quentin up beside a formless trunk and left him there holding his arm with his good hand. Though the night was cool, Quentin swam in his own sweat and tasted its salty tang on his lips. He fought to remain conscious when he saw the black wings fluttering closer. He felt as if he did not have a single bone that had not been wrenched out of joint.

  Toli was back beside him in an instant. “They are looking for us. They know you have escaped. They have not yet turned toward the trees, but it is only a matter of time. They will find the gully, and they will follow it as we have. We cannot stay here.”

  Quentin gasped and nodded. His temples pulsed with the pain as it twisted deeper and deeper into him. He could feel his strength slipping away. With Toli beside him he started off again, blindly, for between the sweat running in his eyes and the darkness of the wood, he could see nothing.

  There were torches wavering over the landscape now. The soldiers were searching for them in knots of three or more, spreading out over the land. Soon Quentin could hear their voices echoing behind them as they dodged and floundered through the trees. Once he thought he saw the flare of a torch off to his right, moving even with them. The voices of their pursuers, excited by the chase, sounded closer.

  “I have a horse waiting,” Toli said, “down there.”

  Quentin realized dimly that they were standing at the top of a low bluff whose slope was clothed in brambles. Before he could speak Toli had them plunging down the slope and into the thickets, heedless of the barbs tearing at their flesh.

  Quentin fought his way through and, with Toli ever at his side, had almost reached the bottom when his foot struck against a root, and he was flung headlong down the slope. He landed hard, unable to break his fall with his hands, and heard a sickening snap as he felt something give way in his injured shoulder. Daggers of pain stabbed into the wound. A startled scream tore from his throat before he could stifle it.

  Toli darted past him, and Quentin felt a rush of movement just in front of him and realized he had landed almost unde
rneath the horse Toli had somehow acquired and hidden for their escape. Then he felt Toli’s strong hands jerking him once more to his feet. He was pushed into the saddle to hang like a sack of barley, head on one side and feet on the other. Toli was instantly behind him, holding him on with one hand and snapping the reins with the other.

  The horse jumped away, and Quentin saw the earth spin aside in a jumble of confused shapes: branches, rocks, sky, and ground. He saw a light and then another. He heard a shout close at hand and an answer not far away. His teeth ground against each other as he clung helplessly to the saddle.

  Now the shouts of the enemy were all around. A dark shape rushed at them from out of the brush. Toli slashed down at it with the reins. Suddenly the copse was ablaze with torches. Toli jerked the reins hard and turned the horse toward the slope, but it was too steep for the frightened animal. The horse struggled, slid, pawed the air, and then fell back, legs pumping furiously.

  Quentin was flung to the ground and Toli on top of him. In an instant they were ringed by soldiers and seized. Quentin saw the flash of a torch and the awful scowl of a face leering over him; then black hands grabbed him and began dragging him away. He heard a voice shouting in desperation and realized it was his own, but he could not make out the words.

  He jerked his head around to see what had become of Toli, but could only see the swinging torches behind him. How bright the flaming brands are, he thought. It hurt his eyes to look at them. Run, get away! another voice told him, this one inside his head. Yes, he must escape. If only they would release him, he would run and run and not stop running until he was far away.

  Where were they taking him? he wondered. What would happen to him? The questions framed themselves in his mind, but no answers came. Very well, it did not matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He had ceased to feel anything at all. He felt consciousness slipping from him; he heard a furious buzzing sound loud in his ears.

  There was a rush of black wings, and suddenly he was soaring, falling, tumbling, floating high above the earth. Quentin looked down and saw a strange procession of torchbearers marching through the wooded dell. They carried with them the bodies of two unfortunates. Who could they be? Quentin was sorry for them. Sadly, he turned his eyes away and saw the dark edge of the night sweeping toward him.