In the Hall of the Dragon King

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  This activity continued for a long time, during which the others watched and dozed and ate by turns. At last Inchkeith pulled the crucible white-hot from the flames and gingerly set it down.

  “Quickly, now!” he shouted. “Take up the forger’s yoke and lend a hand. Step lively!”

  Quentin was nearest at hand and took up the tool Inchkeith had indicated—a long iron utensil with two handles and a circular bulge in the center. Inchkeith took the yoke and placed it over the crucible, directing Quentin to take one of the handles and carefully follow his instructions. Quentin did as he was told, and they proceeded to pour out the molten ore, now a shimmering pale blue like liquid silver, into four long, narrow molds that Inchkeith had arranged along the floor. There remained a fair amount of the precious metal when the four molds were filled, so Inchkeith poured the rest into a sheet mold, and then they sat down to wait for the metal to cool.

  Waiting for the glowing lanthanil to cool was like waiting for an egg to hatch, Quentin thought. But at last the four rod molds were judged cool enough. Inchkeith took up a dipper of water and poured it over the still-hot metal, sending billows of steam rising into the dimly luminescent air of the cavern. He then broke apart the molds and, with tongs, and heavy gloves on his hands, drew out four square rods nearly four feet in length.

  The master armorer hopped to his anvil, took each rod, and pierced one end; then he joined the rods together by passing a rivet cut from the sheet of lanthanil he had made.

  “Now, then. I have done all I may do,” he said, holding up the four newly fastened rods for the others to see. “Durwin tells me that you must do the rest, Quentin.”

  Quentin rose to his feet. “Me? You jest! I know as much about making a sword as I would know of making a tree!”

  “Then it is time you learned. Come here.” Inchkeith held the rods in the tongs and indicated for Quentin to take them. Quentin stepped forward, looking to Durwin for approval. Durwin waved him on, and Quentin took the rods.

  “Now, do not think for a moment that I will allow you to mar my greatest masterpiece, young sir. I will guide your hands to even the smallest movement. I will be your brain and your eyes, and you will do as I direct to the utmost. Do you understand?”

  Quentin nodded obediently, and they began to work.

  Under Inchkeith’s watchful eye he took hammer and tongs and began to braid the still malleable metal, one rod over the other, in a tight square braid. When he had finished the task, sweat was dripping from his face and his bare arms. He had long since stripped off his shirt and tunic and wore only his trousers.

  The braided rods were then thrust into the pit of the forge among the burning embers, and Quentin turned the core—as Inchkeith called it—constantly, while the armorer plied the creaking bellows.

  Soon the core began to glimmer blue-white once more, and Quentin pulled it from the fire, his own face glowing red and flushed. Taking the core, he placed one square end into the square hole in the side of the golden anvil and with the tongs began to twist the braid together.

  He twisted and twisted, winding and winding until he could twist no more. Then Inchkeith let him stop, and the core was plunged back into the pit of embers and heated to blue-white once more. Then came more twisting and still more. Quentin was exhausted and feeling more so all the time, but the rhythm of the work began to steal over him, and he found he entered a free-floating state where he moved in concert with the master armorer’s wishes—so much so that he began to feel as if it were Inchkeith’s will directing his hands and muscles and not his own.

  The braided core was twisted again and again until, by the very tension of the coils, it began to fuse together. When it had fused completely, Inchkeith had Quentin cut the long, thin core in two, for it had nearly doubled in length with all the twisting. One half was then set aside, and the other half was pounded flat on the golden anvil with the hammer of gold. Every time Quentin struck the core, dazzling sparks showered all around and a flash like lightning was loosed.

  The flattened core was heated and pounded, heated and pounded time and again until it was very thin and flat. Then it was set to cool. Toli was given the task of dousing it with water numerous times to cool it more quickly.

  Taking the length of twisted braid that had been set aside, Quentin thrust it into the forge pit to reheat it. He then began twisting it again and again, drawing it out into a thin rod. This rod was pinched in half as well, and these two pieces, along with the cool flat piece, were thrust into the burning coals once more as Inchkeith explained that the repeated heating and cooling of the metal tempered it and made it stronger, as did the braiding of the original rods. “You have then the strength of four blades, not just one,” he crowed. “This is how the legendary blades of old were made. There is a tension in the twisting of the braid that is never undone. This tension is what makes the sword leap to the hand and sing in the air. No common blade forged of a rod and flattened can stand against it.”

  When the three long pieces were once more burning with blue brilliance and crackling with sparks, they were withdrawn. Quentin was so absorbed in his work it seemed as if he walked in a dream; all his surroundings blurred, becoming faint and insubstantial as he toiled on. His eyes had sight only for the flaming blue metal turning under his hands.

  The three hot pieces were placed precisely upon the anvil according to Inchkeith’s exacting specifications. With quick, sure hammer blows, Quentin welded the two rounded pieces to the flat one. This action resulted in a very long, flat piece with a rounded ridge in the center. When that was done, Inchkeith sent him to plunge the core into the pool and leave it there until it could be handled freely.

  Quentin hurried off, so absorbed that he nearly stumbled over the curled figures of Durwin and Toli rolled in their cloaks, fast asleep.

  After a time Inchkeith came and settled himself down beside Quentin to wait. “You are doing a master’s job, sir. A master’s job. If you were not spoken for, I would take you in and teach you the armorer’s craft. You have the heart for it and the soul; I have seen how you look upon your work. You know what I am talking about, eh?”

  “It is true. I have never done anything like this, but it is as if I feel in my hands what the metal would have me do, and I do it—though you must take credit there, for I would not begin to know what to do. But when I lift the hammer and I see it fall, a voice says ‘Strike here!’ and it is done.” Quentin lifted the core from the pool. Water slithered down its pale blue surface and slid back into the pool in shining beads. “It does not look very like a sword yet,” remarked Quentin.

  “Oh, it will. It will. The work is just begun. Now we will see how this metal works. Now will come the test!”

  Inchkeith and Quentin worked on and on, pausing to take a little food now and then, and to rest only in idle moments, though there were few of those. Toli and Durwin looked on and uttered words of encouragement when such words were needed, but mainly kept themselves out of the way and silent, allowing the master and his eager apprentice to work on undisturbed.

  There was much heating and cooling, hammering and shaping of the gleaming metal. It was chiseled and chased, beaten and burnished, until at last the blade of a sword could be seen emerging from the long, flat length of metal. A hilt and handle were fashioned from the solid sheet that had been put aside. From this a flat piece was rolled and flattened, and it, too, was twisted and twisted and then joined to the emerging blade.

  The blade was fired and refired. Each time it was scraped smooth and filed again and again with long, careful strokes. Inchkeith bent his face over the hot metal and directed Quentin’s fingers here and there along the length, pointing out minute flaws that only he could see. If his young apprentice’s strength and enthusiasm flagged, the old master’s never did. With praise and threats and stubborn demands, Inchkeith challenged Quentin to better and higher work, at one point taking Quentin’s hands in his own and guiding them over the blade to do the job he knew must be done.

>   And then it was finished.

  Quentin sat exhausted on a large rock and looked at his handiwork as it lay across the golden anvil. Inchkeith studied it carefully, nodding and puffing out his cheeks alternately. Durwin and Toli were nowhere to be seen. Quentin’s eyes burned in his head, and though tired, he watched Inchkeith’s every wink and frown with breathless anticipation.

  At last the master craftsman turned to Quentin, his face beaming, his chest swelling with pride. “Yes, it is finished.” He hesitated, seeing Quentin hungrily grasp at his words. “And it is a masterpiece.”

  Quentin leaped and shouted for joy. “We have done it!” he cried. “We have done it!” He grabbed the old man and began dancing around the forge where they had lived and worked and sweated for what seemed years on end. They were so caught up in the relief and exultation of the moment that they did not hear Durwin and Toli return.

  “Does this unseemly exhibition mean that you two have finished your labors at last?” Durwin called, bounding forward to clap them both on the back. He stopped, and a look of reverent awe lit his eyes. Toli, coming hard on his heels, stopped and began speaking in his native tongue.

  “It is—” Durwin searched for words. “It is indeed a thing of fearsome beauty.” His hands flew up toward his face as if he feared the sight would burn him.

  “It is the Zhaligkeer,” said Toli. “It is the Shining One.”

  Quentin took it from the anvil and held it in his hand, lifting it toward heaven. “This is the Shining One of the Most High. Let it move as he alone directs. As I am his servant, let it be filled with his power, and let our enemies fly before its terrible fury.”

  “So be it!” shouted the others. Durwin stepped up and brought out a vial from the leather pouch at his side.

  “I have kept this for this time. It is oil which has been blessed in Dekra. With it I will anoint the blade of the Shining One.”

  Quentin held the sword across the palms of both hands as Durwin opened the vial and poured the holy oil along the length of the blade, which shone with a pale, silvery blue light. The sword was indeed a thing of dread beauty. It was long and thin, tapering almost imperceptibly along its smooth, flawless length to a gleaming point. The grip and hilt sparkled as if cut from gemstone.

  As Durwin poured out the oil, he blessed the sword, saying, “Never in malice, never in hate, never in evil shall this blade be raised. But in righteousness and justice forever shall it shine.” Then he took his fingers and rubbed the oil over the finely worked blade.

  As he touched the shining metal, Durwin felt the power of the lanthanil flow through him, and it was as if the years fell away from him; he was a young man again and marveled at the sensation, for he had quite grown used to his numerous aches and pains. When he turned to the others, he was the same Durwin as before, but vastly changed in aspect. He appeared wiser, stronger, and more noble than before. He laughed out loud and pointed a long finger at Inchkeith, who gazed at him with some alarm, seeing the sudden change that had come over the hermit.

  “Look there, Inchkeith, my friend. The blade has worked its enchantment upon you as well, I see.”

  Inchkeith, aghast, sputtered, “What are you talking about? I never touched the stone, nor the blade. What do you mean?”

  Quentin looked at the hunchbacked armorer and saw that he was standing erect and tall; he seemed to have grown several inches. How or when it had happened he had not noticed. Perhaps when the master had placed his hands upon Quentin’s, the power had gone into him; but they had been so completely absorbed in their work, they had not noticed until Durwin pointed it out to them just at that moment.

  “Yes!” shouted Quentin. “You are healed, Inchkeith. You are whole.”

  A look of stunned disbelief shone on the craftsman’s face; he squared his shoulders and raised his head. It was minutes before he would believe that his hump had disappeared, but when that belief finally broke in upon him, he sank to his knees and began to cry.

  “Your god has done this, Durwin!” he cried as tears of happiness streamed down his face. “I believe now. I believe all you ever told me about him. Blessed is the Most High. From now on I am his servant.”

  They all rejoiced together, and the high-domed roof of the great cave echoed with their voices. The halls of the Ariga, deep beneath the mountains, rang with joyful sounds such as had not been heard in ten thousand years.

  52

  When Ronsard arrived at the gatehouse barbican, he was met by the worried glances of his officers and Lord Rudd. “What is it?” he asked. “What is the alarm?”

  “I ordered it,” explained Rudd. “Look down there. They are bringing some machine up the ramp.”

  Ronsard looked down and saw that what Rudd had said was quite true; two hundred or more Ningaal were laboring with ropes and poles to drag an enormous device up the ramp. The battering ram had been taken away, and this lumbering object was being wheeled with great exertion to assume its place before the gates.

  “What is it?” a perplexed Ronsard asked. “I have never seen anything like it.”

  “I cannot say I have seen such a machine in war either. But I can tell you I do not like the look of it, whatever it is.”

  “Direct the archers to hinder them as much as possible. I have no doubt it would be better if it never reached the gates. I will fetch Biorkis; I would have him look at it. Something tells me that thing down there belongs more to his ken than ours.”

  Shortly the lord high marshal was back at the battlements, dragging a blustering priest behind him. “What do you make of that?” Ronsard asked as they peered over the stone ramparts onto the activity below.

  “It is a strange thing indeed!” said Biorkis, pulling on his braided beard. “Very strange.”

  His old eyes gazed upon the massive black object inching its way up the long incline under a hail of arrows. Its black skin shone with a dull luster in the sunlight, and two great arms thrust forward, palms upward as if to receive the supplications of the castle dwellers. It stood with the legs and torso of a man, one leg thrust forward, bent at the knee, the other stretched straight behind. But its face and head were its most distinguishing features, next to its size, for it bore the head and mane of a lion and the gaping maw of a jackal with a jackal’s sharp fangs bared in a furious, frozen snarl of rage. Two huge black horns swept out from either side of its hideous black head, and its unblinking eyes stared angrily ahead as it groaned forward under its immense weight.

  Ronsard’s archers were causing much consternation among the enemy, but not as much as Ronsard would have liked; for no sooner had one rope-bearer fallen than another sprang forward to take his place. Soon those in the forefront had been provided with shields that they held over their heads to fend off the deadly rain, and the arrows rattled harmlessly down, striking only at random and seldom causing any mortal hurt. Ronsard called for the arrows to cease, but for the archers to remain alert to any target careless enough to present itself. Still the thing inched forward.

  “Well?” asked Ronsard. “What say you, Biorkis?”

  “Undoubtedly it is an idol of some sort. But to which god I am uncertain. I have never seen it before, and the thing that puzzles me is this: what kind of idol is it that it is taken into war to do battle with men? What kind of god do these Ningaal worship?”

  “Why should that puzzle you? Men are always calling on their gods to lead them in battle, to deliver the victory into their hands, as you well know. This is only slightly more obvious, I will warrant, but it is the same.”

  “Yes, it is the same, and not the same at all. This is more primitive and more savage. It is a thing unholy and evil. Even the gods of the earth and sky are offended by such as this. It belongs to a long-distant time and place, back in man’s darker past. It is evil, and it breeds evil.”

  “But does it have any power?” asked Ronsard. Biorkis looked at him oddly. “You know what I mean. Of itself—is it a thing of power?”

  Biorkis thought for a moment
before answering. “That I cannot say with certainty. Your question is perhaps more difficult than you know.” He fingered his white beard as he gazed at the monstrous thing.

  “An idol is but wood or stone,” the priest continued. “It is the image of the god it represents. Images do not often have power, except for the ones who worship them, and then the power can be very great indeed.”

  “This one has power,” said a gruff voice behind them. Ronsard and Biorkis turned to see Myrmior standing behind them. “And, yes, it is evil. Well I know it, for I have seen it work often enough. It is an idol, yes. But its purpose is far more coldly cunning than you suspect. It is foremost a machine of war, known in other lands as Pyrinbradam—a fire-breather.”

  A glimmering of understanding appeared in Ronsard’s eyes. “If that is true, I will order water to be brought up at once.”

  “It would be wise,” Myrmior assented. “Wet skins, if you have them, might offer some protection.”

  Ronsard called his officers to relay his orders and see that they were carried out. Water was to be poured over the gates and wet skins draped across them in an effort to reduce their flammability.

  “Is there nothing else that may be done?” he asked.

  “Nothing but to wait. Wait and pray,” muttered Myrmior.

  The waiting began and lasted for twelve long days. And each of those days was filled with ceaseless labor as water was hauled in buckets to the top of the drawbridge gate and poured over the great wooden planks. By night and day the water cascaded down the gates, and skins of cattle were soaked and spread only to be retrieved, soaked, and spread again.

  The fire-breathing idol spewed flames from its mouth and nostrils in a never-ending torrent, scorching wood and stone, and heating metal until it glowed with a ruddy cast. The Ningaal tore apart the dwellings of the townspeople to fuel the monster at the gates. Into a cavity at the idol’s base they threw the timber and oil that sent the flames and sparks gushing from its white-hot mouth.