In the Hall of the Dragon King

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Take no thought for me, hermit. Do not stop on my account,” said Inchkeith. But Quentin noticed he loosened his pack all the same.

  “It is not for anyone but myself that I sit down, sir. My feet tell me it is time to rest a bit, and my stomach agrees.”

  They ate, and Quentin realized how hungry he was after all. As he munched, he wondered whether it was day or night outside. But in his mind he pictured it exactly the way he had seen it last. Durwin had been right— it was a useful thing to carry a little sunlight with one into this dark hole.

  Toli ate little and said less. He had grown sullen and had withdrawn into himself, becoming, if it were possible, even more quiet than usual. Quentin pretended to take no notice of his friend’s behavior, for that would have only served to make it more painful to him. He knew precisely what was bothering Toli: the Jher did not like the smothering confines of the mine. It was a supreme act of bravery for Toli, born of a people who roam the earth at will, following the wild creatures, to have even entered the hateful place, which seemed to him worse than a grave.

  And there was something of the same uneasiness that bothered Quentin, too. But in him it took the form of a puzzlement. The Ariga, whose every word was a visible, tangible song, had constructed a most unappealing mine shaft. Not that Quentin had expected the brightly colored, sweeping galleries of Dekra to be reproduced below, but he did anticipate something of their remarkable flair, which usually showed in even the most mundane articles of their everyday life, to be present here. All he could see was a black tunnel of stone that glistened in patches where water seeped down its sides.

  “If I am not mistaken, we are still in the entrance shaft. Soon, I think, we will reach the first level. How many levels there are, I cannot say, nor on which one we shall find the lanthanil,” Durwin said. “We will search each level and every gallery until we find it. My own guess is that it lies very deep and that we must descend to the lowest level.”

  At that Toli made a strange grimace, as if he were eating a most bitter fruit. Quentin would have laughed if it had been anyone else, but he knew how much this experience was torturing his friend. So he turned away and said to Durwin, “You mention the lanthanil. I would hear more about it, for all I know is what little you have said and what I remember from Dekra, which is so wrapped in legend as to be beyond belief.”

  “Do not be certain of that. Yes, often the stories men recite about such things do grow in the telling. But the Stone of Light—that is what the word means, roughly translated—is a most fantastic substance. It has many exotic and powerful properties.”

  “If tales are to be believed,” said Inchkeith, staring into the darkness, “hear this one. Many years ago my father was traveling the world with his father. He was but a small boy at the time, and they were seeking the secrets of weaponry and armor, of forging and forming rare metals, of setting gems in their bezels—all the craft which an armorer must know.

  “In Pelagia they met a merchant who sold arms, and they became friends when the merchant saw a sample of my grandfather’s work. When the merchant realized that he was talking to a great craftsman, he took them into the back of his shop—for in that country they had stalls outside covered with awnings, and inside—where the merchants and craftsmen lived and worked—they kept the very finest articles of their trade. To be invited inside was a considerable honor.

  “This merchant, a well-known and respectable man—I cannot recall if I ever heard his name—took them in and led them to a very small room in his large house. He unlocked the bolt across the door to this room and then led them inside. My father said it was very dark. He remembered the walls of the room were extremely thick and the door was very heavy, for it groaned on its iron hinges like a drawbridge.

  “The merchant closed the door and brought out a casket from some hidden place and put it before them on the table. The case was bound with locks and chains, though it was but a small one. When he had unlocked it, he took out an object wrapped in cloth. My father said the object was not very large, and appeared to not be much in weight, for the man handled it with ease and with great reverence.

  “The merchant did not speak, but unwrapped the cloth and revealed a chalice of surpassing beauty. But most remarkable of all—the thing my father remembered most clearly until the day he died—was the way it shone in the darkness, as if lit with an inner flame. He said he cried to look at it, it was so beautiful, but then, he was a small boy.

  “He reached out to touch the shining cup, and the merchant pulled it away, saying that it was enchanted and to touch it with bare hands diminished its power. He said it was very old and its power was only a fraction of what it had been, but that it was still great. He said that cordials sipped from the goblet cured at once, that the very touch of it healed all infirmities.

  “My father’s father then did a very unusual thing. As proud as he was of his work, he said he would give the merchant his finest dagger for one touch of the chalice for himself and his son. My father noticed the strange look which came over his father’s face as his voice pleaded. The dagger was finely wrought; it had a golden handle with rubies inset. It was worth a great deal, and yet the merchant hesitated.

  “But in the end he relented and let them touch the chalice. My father remembered how the light that leaped from the exquisite cup lit his father’s face and seemed to infuse him with a new power of creating and a heightened understanding of his craft—though this was observed much later. When his father finally passed the chalice to him, he was afraid to touch it, but his father urged him to, and he did. He said he never felt such strength and wholeness, and nothing in his life ever moved him with such emotion after that. Though he was but a small boy, he knew even then that he would never recover that feeling or see such beauty again; so he treasured it in his heart.

  “My father spent the rest of his life trying to achieve in his craft the beauty that he saw in that cup. And you know he lived far beyond the natural span of a man’s years. He always said it was because of the chalice and that had his father given a hundred golden daggers, it would have been but a paltry sum for the gift of that one touch.”

  Inchkeith’s voice softened to a whisper. Quentin, Toli, and Durwin, too, sat rapt and staring in amazement at the story the armorer told. For a long time no one spoke, but at last Quentin broke the silence. “What became of your grandfather? How did it affect him?”

  Inchkeith was slow in answering, and when he at last opened his mouth to speak, he turned eyes filled with sadness toward them. “His was not a happy fate. He, too, lived long and prospered. But he became obsessed with finding another chalice, or some other object made from the mysterious metal, and when he could not, he tried to make one himself. But he was always disappointed. For though his works became the most highly prized in all the realm, he was yet unsatisfied. He died bitter and broken, consumed with despair. Some said it was the despair that killed him in the end.”

  “Did your father not share his fate, then?”

  “To some degree, yes. He, too, was never satisfied with the work of his hands after having held the chalice. But you must remember he was a small boy. I believe his heart was yet innocent and untutored in the ways of the world. The touch of the chalice, rather than leading to bitterness in the end, inflamed him with a burning desire to seek that beauty. He died at last unfulfilled, it is true, but not unhappy for that.”

  “Your story is most moving,” said Durwin. “I begin to see now why the Most High has chosen you to accompany us on this journey. It seems your family has some part to play here.” He looked around at them all and said, “Well, we have rested and talked long enough. Let us continue our quest. Onward!”

  Slowly and painfully, they shouldered their burdens once more and lifted their torches to resume their long, slow descent into the mine.

  If the outer wards were filled with the frenzy of frightened citizens, the inner wards were filled with soldiers feverishly preparing for the impending siege. A steady st
ream of soldiers marched from the base of the southern tower, emerging from the donjon with armloads of spears and bundles of arrows. Others, bent to the task in smaller groups, labored over objects of wood, rope, and iron on the ground; they were assembling the machines of war. Still others tied piles of straw into bundles and sewed heavy pieces of cloth and skins together.

  Horses were led to the stables around the ward yard, where squires sat at whetstones sharpening sword, lance, spear, and halberd. Provisions, brought up from the town by the wagonload, were stacked away in kitchens and pantries by cooks and their helpers. Dogs chased cackling chickens and honking flocks of geese, while children, uninhibited by the danger and excited by the bustle of activity around them, ran and played, dodging the footsteps of their elders and staging pretend battles.

  Eskevar roamed the battlements like a shade. He seemed to be everywhere at once. His commanders looked up to see him watching them as they drilled the troops; the donjon keeper found him inquiring about the level of water in the reservoir, dipping the measuring rod himself; the squires were instructed in better sharpening techniques by one whose hand bore the royal signet. At the end of the day, there did not seem to be anyone anywhere within the walls who had not seen him.

  “Sire, I must protest!” exclaimed Biorkis, clucking his tongue. “Durwin would tell you if he were here, and so I tell you in his stead— listen to him if not to me: you must rest. Your strength is but half recovered, and your ride into battle has tired you. Rest, I say, and let your commanders make ready all that is necessary.”

  Eskevar fixed him with a baleful stare. “You little guess the danger gathering at our gates. Who is there to see to those preparations if not the king?”

  Biorkis, well warned by Durwin regarding the obstinate pride of his patient, did not flinch from his duty. “What good will you be to your people when you lie exhausted on your bed, unable to even lift your head, let alone wield a sword or shout a command? Rest now while you may.”

  The king frowned ferociously. “I am sound enough, I tell you! My strength is none of your concern.” Even as he spoke, he tottered uncertainly.

  “How so, Sire? It is now the concern of every man and child in the realm who would see his king deliver him from the hand of the enemy. You need rest. Gather your strength that the day of the trial does not find you enfeebled.”

  “Enfeebled! The way you talk! And to your king, by the gods!” Eskevar snapped. His face darkened in such rage that Biorkis thought it best not to press the matter further for the moment. “There is much to do, and someone must see to it that it is done well,” Eskevar growled as he went out again. Biorkis did not see him the rest of the day, though he waited near Eskevar’s chamber for the king to return.

  46

  It was strange to wake in the vast darkness of the mine. When Quentin opened his eyes, he did not know that he had opened them at all. The sensation of blindness was so overpowering that for a moment Quentin’s heart clenched in his chest until he remembered where he was and how he had come to be there. Just to make sure, he winked both eyes several times, but could discern no difference. So he lay on the hard, uneven stone and waited, not inclined to bump around in an attempt to light a torch. From the deep, regular breathing that filled the chamber’s towering silence, he knew the others were still asleep. He would wait.

  They had made two more long marches before fatigue overtook them, and Durwin decided they must sleep before moving on. They had reached the first level shortly after they had stopped to rest and eat the first time. The corridor with the low roof had ended in a steep incline that emptied upon a room of interminable size, judging by the echoes the stony walls flung back at them when they spoke. But they had no light to see how large the room was, for the torchlight failed to illuminate its farthest dimensions.

  They had crossed the great room, passing huge columns of reddish stone carved of the rock of the mountain’s core, rising out of the floor like monstrous trees sweeping from the ground, their tops lost in the inky blackness above. Quentin counted twenty pillars before they reached the far end of the room, which tapered to a huge arch through which they passed. The arch bore the unmistakable marks of having been made by Ariga stonecutters. Quentin would have liked to stand and admire it, but they passed quickly on.

  The next corridor was more difficult to navigate than the first. It was wider and its roof higher, allowing for more freedom of movement, but numerous shafts and galleries opened off it, often abruptly and at slight angles. It forked in several places, splitting off to the right and left. Sometimes they would pass by an opening that Quentin could not see until he felt a chill breeze on his face and smelled the dank, musty odor of stale air and stone. Once they crossed a stone bridge that arched across a wide crevice, splitting the floor before them in a sharp divide. On the bridge, Quentin felt a warm updraft and guessed that the rift was the chimney of some subterranean fire eternally blazing.

  Each time Durwin came to a fork or a turn that offered a choice of paths to follow, the hermit elected to take the one that promised a downward course. He admitted he had no precise notion of what they were looking for, but had the idea that the highly prized ore they sought lay at the deepest levels of the mine.

  They had rested in a curious domed chamber on the far side of the stone bridge. They talked among themselves at first, but somehow— through fatigue, or through the wearing oppression of the deep darkness— the conversation seemed to dry up like a trickle of water in the desert sand, vanishing slowly without a trace of its having ever been there.

  Though tired, and aching from the weight of the packs they carried, they had decided to press on. The slope of the downward track increased dramatically once they left the domed chamber. With the extra weight they carried on their shoulders, the falling grade impelled them onward at a faster pace than they would have normally had strength or inclination to attempt. The result was that they reached the second level in what seemed no time at all.

  Quentin knew they had been walking for some hours when they tumbled into the enormous cavern that formed the central chamber of the second level. But time had ceased to function in its normal way. Hours collapsed and minutes stretched out incredibly until it seemed that time had no meaning at all unless it was measured in footsteps or in tunnels passed.

  They had been walking in silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts as in a hooded cloak from head to toe, when Quentin felt a touch at his elbow that caused him to jump in fright, nearly dropping his torch. “Toli! You scared me. I did not hear you creeping up behind me.”

  “Excuse me, Kenta. I did not mean to alarm you.” He looked at Quentin with large, shining eyes as deep as fathomless pools. For a moment Quentin was reminded of the time, long ago it seemed now, when he had met a young Jher in the forest, dressed in deerskins and peering at him with the soft, wary eyes of a wild creature. The look Toli gave him now was exactly as it had been then. With a sudden creeping sensation, Quentin imagined Toli had entered some more primitive state. Looking at those large, dark eyes glittering in the quavering light of the torch was like looking into the eyes of a wild and frightened animal.

  “What is it, Toli? Is something the matter?” Quentin spoke in barely a whisper.

  Toli stared around him in a strange, wide-eyed way. When he spoke again, it was with a quivering voice on a strange note that Quentin had not heard before in his friend. Toli appeared poised and ready for flight; Quentin feared that he might suddenly dash off into the darkness, never to be seen again. “My people do not love dark places,” said Toli. “We have never lived in caves. In ages before this one, when holes and caves were home to many men, my people lived in the forest and made their homes in the light.”

  The way he spoke made it seem that Toli was offering a deeply personal confession. Quentin did not know what to think.

  “There are still those among us who speak of the times of the cave dwellers,” continued Toli. “Some even have been inside caves when they have come upon th
em in the forest. But I have never been.”

  All at once Quentin realized what Toli was trying to tell him. And he realized what strength it had taken for the Jher to follow him into this dark place. To Toli it was not a mine; it was an ancestral taboo that he was willing to put aside, out of love for his friend. But the darkness and the endless walkways of stone boring ever deeper into the bowels of the earth had at last stripped Toli of the veneer of civilization he had acquired living with his Kenta. He was the Jher prince once more, wild as the free creatures of the Wilderlands.

  “We will soon be finished here, Toli. Do not fear. You will see the living land once again, and very soon.” Quentin felt the emptiness of his words. The more so when Toli turned an uncomprehending, glassy stare upon him and seemed not to recognize him at all. Quentin had the odd feeling that he was looking at a stranger whose face was as familiar as his own. The Toli he knew had vanished.

  “Delnur Ivi, Toli,” Quentin murmured as they trudged along, repeating the words over and over by the flickering torchlight. He had racked his brain for some smattering of the Jher speech he could use, and that was what he had come up with. Delnur Ivi. Hold on . . . hold on.

  Quentin rolled over in the darkness and was startled to see a faint light bouncing toward him out of the formless void. It seemed to float or swim in the darkness, and it blinked like the eye of some cave beast that had happened upon their trail and was now stalking them. He watched as the light grew brighter by degrees.

  Quentin sat up, wondering whether to wake the others and warn them. He heard the shuffling footsteps of someone coming down the passageway toward the chamber where they had huddled to sleep. But even as Quentin framed the thought, the feeling of danger passed. He waited, and presently the light burst through the arched entrance to the chamber, filling the room, or so it seemed to Quentin’s light-deprived eyes, with a sun-like brilliance.