In the Hall of the Dragon King

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  With that, the Dragon King slashed the reins across the stallion’s white neck and wheeled him around. Blazer tossed his handsome white head, and Quentin glared at Toli. “Find him,” he said softly, his tone a threat. “Just find him.”

  Toli stood in the road and watched his king ride away. He watched until a bend in the road took him from sight, then went back and mounted Riv and turned toward Askelon. No one spoke. There was nothing to say.

  15

  Nimrood sat brooding on a rock, hunched like a bent old root, twisted with age and warped by the dark forces within him. He was waiting for nightfall to undertake the final leg of their journey, for they had reached the eastern edge of the forest, and the rest of the way to the temple lay through open ground. He did not want to risk traveling by day; so they waited, restlessly.

  Prince Gerin, his young mind alert to all around him, was confident he would not be harmed; and since he appeared in no immediate danger, escape could wait for the right opportunity—if he was not rescued first. He also saw quite plainly that his abductors had little spirit for the task they were about. But the old one, the one with the wild white hair and the face as lined and creased as worn leather, he was one to watch out for.

  Who was he? What did he want, and where were they taking him? These questions occupied the young captive as he sat on the ground beneath the tree, two guards with him at all times.

  He shifted uneasily, trying to loosen the bonds on his arms. One of the guards eyed him suspiciously, glared, but did not say anything.

  When my father comes for me, thought Gerin, you will be very sorry. I hope he comes soon; I am going to miss the rest of the hunt otherwise.

  There was no doubt in the young prince’s mind that the king would come for him, would rescue him. All he had to do was wait.

  There came a sound in the wood: someone approaching quickly on foot, and noisily, with much rustling of branches and cracking of twigs underfoot. Nimrood jumped up, his voice a harsh whisper. “We are found! Draw your weapons!”

  The men jumped up and drew their blades, but before anyone had a chance to position himself for the attack, the intruder stumbled into camp. “Wait!” he said, startled. “No, wait!” He fell back and landed on his rump.

  “You!” said Nimrood. The man was one of the two left behind to guard their escape.

  He jumped up, glancing around quickly with frightened eyes. “I was not followed!” he cried. “Put away your swords!”

  “You better not have been followed, or I will feed you piecemeal to the birds. Where is your friend?” Nimrood demanded, shoving aside the others.

  “Dead.” The man cast a terrified look behind him, as if expecting his own death to come charging out of the woods at any moment.

  “How?” Nimrood stood with his hands on his hips, eyes boring into the wretch before him.

  “He found us on the road. He guessed all.”

  “Who found you?”

  “The king! He knew all about us!”

  “Bah!” Nimrood’s countenance became threatening. The guard quaked with fear. “You said too much!”

  “No, by all the gods, I swear it! We told him nothing. He knew— I don’t know how he knew, but he did. We did not have a chance.”

  “How many were with him?”

  “His Majesty—the king—was alone. I hid in the bushes in case we were forced to attack him.”

  “And?” Nimrood stepped closer. The guard grimaced and hurried on with his story.

  “Carlin pretended to be a pilgrim, but the king knew different. We tried to put him off, but—”

  “You were two against one. What happened?”

  The man’s eyes rolled with terror. “That sword of his—the Shining One! No man—no army is a match for that! You should have seen it flash. The flames! It blinded us, and I threw my hands over my eyes. When I looked, Carlin was dead. That sword . . .”

  Nimrood’s demeanor changed abruptly; his tone became coaxing. “Ah, yes, I see. You did right to come here with the news. Yes. But tell me”—he placed a pale hand on the man’s shoulder—“tell me more concerning that sword. The king’s sword—what did you call it?”

  “The Shining One—everyone knows about it. It is enchanted.”

  “It is? How so?” Nimrood smiled a thin, sly, snaky smile. “I do not seem to recall anything about an enchanted sword. But then, I have been long away from Mensandor. Tell me more about it.”

  Eagerly the men told Nimrood about Zhaligkeer, the king’s wonderful sword—about its burning brightness, about the magic mines wherein it was forged, about its strange and terrible powers. They told about how Quentin, still a young man, had come riding out of the mountains with the sword and, by his hand alone, had smashed the invasion of the horrible Nin and turned certain defeat into resounding victory when the Shining One quenched the fire of the Wolf Star.

  Legends concerning the enchanted sword, and the king who wielded it, had already grown large in the land, and increased with every passing year. It was possessed of a holy power, they said. It was enchanted by a god—the one called Most High. Its flame was the symbol of the god’s presence with the king, and more.

  Nimrood listened patiently to the various stories about the sword, letting the temple guards tell him what they knew. All the time the old sorcerer was thinking to himself, Yes, this enchanted sword is just the thing. “What you say is very interesting,” he said at length. “Yes, very interesting.” He turned to the man who had just joined them. “Do you have anything else to tell me?”

  The guard thought for a moment, desperate to please the perverse Nimrood. “Oh!” he said, brightening. “Yes. The king said Durwin— the one called the hermit—was dead.”

  “Oh?” Nimrood’s heart fluttered in his breast. “How is that?”

  “I do not know. He only said, ‘You killed Durwin.’”

  “No one meant to kill him, sir,” explained one of the temple guards who had been there. “It was an accident. He was in the way. We had to stop him to get the prince.”

  This is working better than I hoped! thought Nimrood with glee. Durwin dead! Ah, that pesky hermit out of the way. My revenge will be complete. He nodded at those around him approvingly. “Yes, accidents happen. It could not be helped. But you must tell me these things in the future. I must know everything—it does not do to withhold information from me.”

  “We thought you would be angry,” muttered one near him.

  “Angry? Why should I be angry? Am I unreasonable?” Nimrood smiled again, his thin lips splitting his lined face. “No, you will find I am quite easy to get along with if you but tell me at once. I can be quite reasonable.” He clapped his hands. “Now, get some rest, all of you. We have far to go tonight. I want to be at the High Temple by first light tomorrow.”

  All settled down to rest for their nocturnal journey. Prince Gerin, too, rolled up into a ball, though he did not feel like sleeping; he did so to hide his tears from those around him. He did not want his captors to see him crying for his friend Durwin.

  At midday, Toli and the knights with him reached Askelon. Upon entering the inner ward yard, they found assembled nearly a score of knights with horses and squires darting here and there with provisions and equipment.

  “What is this?” asked Toli. He slid from his mount and hurried to a cluster of men standing in the center of all this activity. The ring parted as the Jher came near. “Theido! Ronsard!” he shouted when he saw them.

  Both men burst into grins and clapped him on the back. “We were hoping to see you before we rode out. And the king—” Theido halted, eyes narrowed. “You have seen him?”

  “Yes,” replied Toli curtly. “He will not soon be returning.”

  “I see.” Theido frowned. “We must hold council and agree upon a plan in any case. We should not delay.”

  “With the queen’s permission we had hoped to leave at once,” said Ronsard.

  “Yes, you must leave soon. I will join you as soon as I have eaten
and washed.”

  “I will have food sent to the council chamber,” Ronsard suggested, and left to arrange it. Those who had ridden through the night with Toli took their leave also.

  Theido walked Toli a few paces aside to the massive inner curtain where they could talk more freely. The bustle continued in the yard around them. Theido leaned against the great wall and folded his arms across his chest. His black hair was threaded with much silver, and his eyebrows as well, but the years had not softened his sharp features—if anything, age had made his appearance even more commanding.

  “There is trouble between you, eh?” Theido said calmly.

  Toli looked across the yard, staring at the activity, seeing nothing. He nodded.

  “What happened?”

  “He . . . my lord blames me for Durwin’s death and the loss of his son,” Toli replied simply.

  “I see.” Theido spoke gently, trying to comfort Toli. “Certainly you know such accusations to be the temper of a distraught and frightened man.”

  “No,” said Toli, shaking his head, “it is true. It is my fault. I left him alone. After the first attack I went after the assailants. I should not have gone. I should never have left the prince for a moment.”

  “You did as you thought best. What man can do more? Durwin knew how to look after himself; he was no stranger to trouble. I am certain you did the right thing.”

  Toli turned haunted eyes on the tall knight. “Durwin was an old man, Gerin a defenseless child. I failed, I tell you.”

  “No! Think what you are saying. What has happened has happened. It cannot be changed. Durwin’s death is not your fault. No one could have known. If you had stayed, it might well have been you struck down to bleed to death.”

  “Better my blood than his!”

  “Never think that.” Theido placed a hand on Toli’s shoulder. “It is not for you to decide such things, my friend. We are all in the god’s hands. It is he who directs our steps. Durwin knew that as well—no, better— than any of us.”

  Toli rubbed his hands over his face. He felt his fatigue descending upon him, covering him like a heavy cloak. “I am tired.”

  “Yes, go to wash and change. You shall rest after our council. We will leave and begin the search.”

  “No, I will go with you. I must.”

  “You will need your rest. If I am not wrong, there will be plenty of searching for all of us. Rest while you can. Also, I would have you go with the queen and Lady Esme.

  Toli looked up quickly. “The queen? Esme? Where are they going?”

  “Durwin is to be buried tomorrow. In the forest. I would go, but now that you are here, I think it better that Ronsard and I lead the search.”

  “I had forgotten about the funeral,” said Toli ruefully. “Yes. Someone should go with them. Very well, I will do as you suggest.”

  He turned to leave, hesitated, and turned back. “There is something else.” Theido waited. The Jher lowered his voice and said, “The king’s scabbard was empty when I found him. The Shining One was gone.”

  16

  Pym, with his gray-muzzled dog beside him, stumped along the road toward Askelon. As he walked, he thought about one thing and one thing only: the magnificent sword he had hidden that very morning. Wrapped in its covering of rags, he had placed Zhaligkeer in a hole in a great old hazelnut tree whose heart had long ago been burned out by lightning. The ancient tree was hollow, but somehow still alive. He then marked the tree with a little pile of stones, and stood a long time looking at it from all directions, so he would remember it when he came back.

  Then, collecting his tools and wares, he had rattled off through the forest to the road, heading once more for Askelon.

  But his mind was uneasy. With every step he wavered. “Mayhaps I ought nivver have left it,” he mumbled to Tip. “Mayhaps I should fetch it back. A body might find it back there, and steal it from Old Pym. Then there’d be no gold, and wagon or sharping stone, neither. Oh, what to do? What to do?”

  At midday he stopped in a shady nook of linden boughs to eat a few morsels. He carried a rind of hard cheese with him, which he cut with a knife for himself and Tip. They washed it down with some water and munched an apple from one of his sacks.

  They were about ready to get back on the road when they heard someone approaching. “Listen there, Tipper. Some’un’s coming up the road, hear? Who could it be? We’uns best sit tight and see who ’tis.”

  They waited, and the sound became voices—many voices, murmuring like a millrace—a whole throng of people traveling south, away from Askelon.

  The first of the group passed by, glancing toward the tinker but hurrying on. These were followed closely by twenty or more travelers, whole families—men, women, and children, deep in conversation or exclaiming loudly to one another as they bundled along.

  Pym stepped out onto the road. “I’ll be vexed, Tip. Where’s all these’uns agoin’?”

  He hailed the nearest traveler. “Ho there! Ho!” The man halted and looked at him. Pym scrambled up. “Where ye bound? And what’s all the pother?”

  “You have not heard? Where have you been, man? Asleep? The whole world’s aruffle!” Others halted with the man and added their voices. “Awful!” said one. “The gods are angry!” said someone else.

  “Us’n’s been on this here road two days,” said Pym. “I met not a body, nor no’un to tell me nothing.”

  “’Tis the prince! Prince Gerin,” replied the first man.

  “His young lordship’s been nimmed and carried off aforce!” shouted someone from behind.

  “Nivver say it!” cried Pym. “When did it happen?”

  “Yesterday morning at the hunt. Thieves took him, and slew the king’s counselor!”

  “Fifty men there were!” said a short man with a wart.

  “A hundred, I heard!” yelled another. Everyone nodded.

  “You seen anyone?” asked the first man suspiciously.

  Old Pym blanched at the thought. “Me? I nivver did. No, sir. Nor heard aught neither. We’uns’d seen a hundred men. But neither hand nor hair have we seen till now. They kilt the king’s minister?”

  “Dead, he is. Oh, the gods are wroth with the king for taking up after this new god of his, this Most High. They are angry, and they are showing their ire! This will teach him.”

  Pym muttered morosely, “This be a dark day. A dark day indeed.”

  “Aye,” they all agreed, and then hastened off down the road once more.

  Pym started on his way again, stopping several succeeding groups to inquire of them also, and all told the same sad story. It was on everyone’s lips, and would surely be the topic of conversation for some time, upsetting the festival as it had.

  “A deed most foul, Tip,” said Pym as they walked along, still proceeding toward Askelon, though all they met were going the other way, back to their villages and towns in the south, to spread the word. In a week there would not be a single man in all Mensandor who did not know what had happened. “Aye, a deed most foul.”

  Quentin pushed relentlessly onward. Early in the day he had forsaken the road and begun combing the side trails—first this way and then the other—hoping to chance across some sign that the assassins had passed through. He found nothing, and with every league descended into a torment and anguish deeper than he had ever known. It seemed at times as if his spirit was tearing itself in two, as if his innermost self were being racked and tortured.

  Why? he kept asking himself. Why has this happened to me? Help your servant, Most High! Help me! Why is there no answer? Why do I feel alone? He has left me; the god has cast me aside.

  That thought alone might have crushed him, but fear for his son and grief for Durwin added their weight until he thought his heart would burst.

  Still, he kept on, pushing himself, willing himself to go farther, stopping only to rest Blazer now and then, and to drink. He continued southward, and as the day bent toward evening, he smelled the salt air of the sea in the breeze
and knew he must be nearing the coast.

  At dusk he rode out of the forest and climbed a sandy bluff overlooking the sea. Gerfallon lay dark and wine-colored in the setting sun. Overhead, a bank of vermilion clouds scudded ashore on the landward wind. Behind them darker clouds gathered; tomorrow would see rain.

  Quentin dismounted and allowed Blazer to crop the sweet green grass that grew long on the bluff. To the west lay Hinsenby, though he could not see it; and to the east the Sipleth slid darkly to the sea, its waters cool from the melt of snow on the high Fiskills. Ahead, out across the water, lay the hulking mass of the island—Holy Island it was called—rising dark from the water: mysterious, uninviting, the source of many stories and much speculation from times past remembering. The island, green with vegetation and dark with ancient forests, was uninhabited—though in older times there were those who attempted to make a home there. But those settlements never lasted long—a few years at the most, and then they were gone. The island was the dwelling of some local gods who did not wish to share their home with mortals, some said.

  Local rumors maintained that the eerie island had once been a place of worship for the early inhabitants of Mensandor, the war-loving and blood-lusting Shoth who practiced their brutish religion of torture and human sacrifice within its cloaked forests, drinking the blood of their victims and eating their flesh. And it was widely believed that there were those who still followed the religion of the Shoth, that the weird rites still took place from time to time in secret. Voices were heard to emanate from the island’s night-cloaked shores, and sometimes the bloodred light of midnight fires could be seen.

  Holy Island was also purported to be a place of power lingering from ancient days, when the gods themselves walked the earth in full sight of men, when the inexplicable was commonplace: dreams, disappearances, apparitions, and miracles.

  Through the gathering dusk that island seemed to beckon Quentin. Its humped shape rose from the flat sea like the head and shoulders of a lordly sea creature, regarding the land with infinite patience. Come, it said. See what is here. Do you feel my power? Do you fear it? Come if you dare.