In the Hall of the Dragon King

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  A shadow fell over him as he squatted in the sunlight listening to the chirp and twitter of the early-morning forest and the soft soughing of the upper branches in the breeze, drinking in the musty fragrance of earth and bark and growing things. Toli glanced up at the figure who had come to stand before him.

  “You are leaving again,” Hoet observed.

  Toli nodded. “I must.”

  “I knew that you had not returned to stay. You are needed, for there is trouble in the land.”

  Toli cocked an eye to the old chieftain. “You know about the white men’s trouble?”

  “It is not only the trouble of the white race; when darkness falls, it covers all. Yes, we know there is trouble in the land. Wind is a swift messenger, and the forest holds no secrets from the Jher.”

  “Then you know the king I serve needs your help. His son has been taken from him by force.”

  Hoet nodded and leaned long on his staff before he spoke again. When at last he did, he replied, “And you carry the blame for this deed.”

  Toli looked away. “How did you know?”

  “How else can it be that you are not with your friend in his time of need? He blames you, or you blame yourself, and that is why you ride alone.”

  “Yes,” replied Toli softly. “Your wits are as sharp as your eyes,Wise One.”

  “When you did not speak last night before the fire, I knew— though I guessed even when you came riding alone to our camp.”

  “Then you knew why I could not speak.”

  “Come with me,” said Hoet, and started away.

  Toli rose, set the bowl aside, and followed the aged Jher leader through the village among the trees. The glances of his kinsmen followed him as they walked the length of the camp to where Toli’s horse waited, already saddled, grazing in a clump of sweet clover at his feet.

  “You do not belong here, Toli. Go now.”

  Toli felt the color rise to his face; his shame burned within him. “You are right to send me away. I have dishonored my people.”

  “It is not from dishonor that I send you, my son,” said Hoet gently. Toli’s eyes darted to his elder. “Why does it surprise you? You have not turned away from your friend—that would be dishonor. No, I send you for yourself. Go, my son, and find the white leader’s son. Your life will not be your own until you have found the boy.”

  Toli smiled and gripped the old man’s arm. “Thank you, my father. The knife in my heart does not hurt so much now.”

  “Yes, go. But come again one day, and we will sit together and share meat.”

  Toli took up the tether peg and gripped the reins, swinging himself easily into the saddle. Riv snorted, eager to be off. “I will ride more swiftly with your blessing.”

  “I have no blessing to give you that Whinoek has not already given.” Hoet paused, regarding the slim man before him. “It is said the king raises a temple to the One Most High.”

  “Yes,” replied Toli. “The Father of Life is not widely known among the white race. Quentin seeks to make the name of the God Most High known to every man alive under the great heavens so that they may worship the only true God.”

  “That is most worthy,” replied Hoet. “But it seems to this old one that where one temple stands, another may not also stand. Is this not true?”

  Toli stared at his tribesman for a moment before the implication of what Hoet had said broke in on him. “Yes, your words are true, Wise One, and I would hear more.”

  Hoet shrugged and lifted his antlered staff. “It has been reported to me that there has been much night traveling in the forest by men from the east, who also returned that way. I did not see them, so I cannot say how it is, but the white men’s great temple of Ariel lies to the east, does it not?”

  “You know well that it does,” said Toli with a grin. “Thank you, my father. You have given your son a great blessing.” He turned Riv into the forest and stopped before entering the shaded trail to raise his hand in farewell.

  Hoet raised his staff and said, “Go in peace.” He remained gazing into the forest long after Toli had disappeared, then turned and shuffled back into the Jher village.

  25

  Nimrood cackled with malicious glee at his good fortune as he flitted through the shadowy passageways of the High Temple like an overgrown bat, his black cloak billowing out behind him like wings. Such a stroke of luck! The gods had sent the meddlesome Jher to the very steps of the temple.

  That ridiculous high priest wanted to turn him away, thought Nimrood. Would have turned him away! But I was there to stop it, and before the dog could run away I had him bound and beaten and thrown into the cell with that mewling prince. Ah ha! Ha, ha!

  At first the sorcerer had to fight down the impulse to finish the deed begun in Pelgrin Forest on the day of the hunt—to strike down the Jher at once. Even now the old hatred fired his thin blood, but he was compelled by a greater prize to turn away from his long-nursed wrath at the one who had shorn him of his power, his precious magic, and had very nearly stripped him also of his life.

  The image of that day still burned in Nimrood’s evil brain: Durwin, a far inferior wizard, stood before him and would not even protect himself, would not lift a finger to summon the power at his call— not that it could have saved him. No, thought Nimrood, nothing could have saved him.

  And then, as Nimrood lifted his rod to deliver the lethal bolt and so blast that cursed hermit’s bones to powder . . . that arrow! From out of nowhere it had come, striking deep into his flesh, sending the rod from his hand. Then, there was the Jher, notching another arrow onto his bowstring. The sorcerer had pleaded for his life—those miserable pleas still echoed in his skull. “Don’t kill me!” he had screamed, and the words had mocked him every moment since that day. He had been humbled before the bow of the Jher, but the young warrior had withheld his pity, had sent another arrow into his enemy’s heart.

  It had exhausted every last living spark of Nimrood’s power to transform himself into a raven and wing to safety. It was a long time before he could once again take mortal shape, for he had not even the magic left to change, but was forced to wait until the spell wore off of its own accord.

  And a bitter exile it was, trapped in that feathered body, prey to the elements and living on scraps of dead, rotting meat. But though he regained but a thread of his former power—the rudiments of mere child’s dabbling still clung to him, the ability to make noise and light— yet he had returned to seek his revenge equipped with an older and more pernicious art: treachery.

  The name of Nimrood the necromancer had perhaps died from men’s memory; so be it. His lies would do what enchantment could not—of that he was certain. Yes, at long last he would have his revenge.

  Oh, the gods were fickle and full of mischief! It took all one’s cunning to outsmart them. Nimrood had done it all his life. And now they had finally delivered the victory into his hand. Yes, oh, yes. Soon the upstart whelp of an acolyte king would suffer as he, Nimrood, had been made to suffer all these years.

  Nimrood allowed himself one whoop of demented joy at the impending consummation of all his dreams. Yes, the Dragon King would fall; and that barbarous god of his, that brutish Most High, would fall with him.

  The wizened old sorcerer clenched his fists and laughed out loud, throwing his head back and letting the sound pour forth from his wicked throat. It was a sound to chill the marrow of anyone passing by. But no one heard it; he was alone and savored the moment to the full, his evil heart lifted in exultation.

  Pym—a strolling heap of scrap metal and tools, bags and bundles and barter enough for any two tinkers—stood before the sign of the Gray Goose. The handpainted, long-legged, long-necked, plump gray goose wobbled on its chain. The windows of the inn were dark now; the door was open, but there was silence within.

  “Tinker!” he cried. “Tinker, ma’am!”

  He waited, winking at Tip. The dog winked back with both eyes.

  In a moment he heard footsteps coming t
oward him across the planked floor. Then appeared a round, flushed face and the plump form of Emm, the innkeeper’s wife. She waved her apron when she saw him, exclaiming, “Pym! You are a sight, you are! Come around again, have you? Give me a hug.”

  She threw her arms around him, and he around her. They were old friends and good ones. “It’s good t’see ye, Emm. You know me—I been afancy for one of yer meat pasties and a noggin o’yer best. We’uns jest had t’come back soon’s we’uns finished away south.”

  “You missed Emm’s cooking, eh? Well, come in, come in with you. We’ll set a fork and trencher at the board and put you to it.”

  Pym followed the matron inside, rattling like a calf in a cupboard with every step. “Milcher!” she called. “Otho! We got us a guest. Look lively, now!”

  Milcher poked his round bald head out from behind a cask he was rolling across the room. “Oh ho! Pym it is! Oh ho! Pym, good to see you, old friend. Come to visit, eh? Glad to have you. Glad to have you!” He called over his shoulder, “Otho! Hurry up now! We have a guest!”

  A tall boyish-faced man came into the room carrying two small kegs under each arm. He grinned at the tinker and put the kegs down, then went to the cask his father was straining at. With ease the overgrown Otho hefted the cask into place. “Pym and Tipper is it?” He grinned boyishly.

  Milcher wiped his sweating face on his sleeve. “Whew! I’ve been at it since dawn this morn.” He shook his friend’s hand. “Come and sit down with me. We’ll drink a sip and fill our bellies.”

  “Don’t you’uns trouble yerselfs fer we,” said Pym. Tip wagged her tail amiably, knowing that this was the place where she received those juicy tidbits and gristly beef bones. She barked once in anticipation of such a morsel.

  “Yes, Tip,” laughed Otho, stooping to pat the dog. “We won’t forget you. Good old girl.”

  Pym threw off his implements and wares and trundled them into a corner. He sat down with the innkeeper, and Emm served them up a little stew and bread. Otho fetched frothy ale in crockery jars and joined them.

  They talked of all that had happened since Pym’s last visit, and all the customers who would need Pym’s services. Before long, however, their conversation turned to the one subject on everyone’s minds and on the tips of everyone’s tongues in every gathering place in Askelon.

  “Shocking!” said Emm, clucking her tongue. “Simply shocking. I can’t imagine who would want to harm that beautiful boy, poor Prince Gerin!”

  “Nor who’d be fool enough to go agin’ the Dragon King. There’s the mystery,” nodded Milcher knowingly. “Him and that sword of his, enchanted and all.”

  They all shook their heads in bewilderment at the affairs that had befallen their king. “You were on the road,” continued Milcher. “Did you see anything?”

  Pym merely shrugged. “’Pears I come too late.” He was of half a mind to tell them about the dead man in the road, and about the sword. But even though they were his friends, he thought better of it and kept that part secret. “’Twas over before we’uns got to Pelgrin, tho a’course we met lotsa bodies on the road to tell it.”

  “Oh, there’s talk aplenty, there is,” agreed Milcher. “Most of it not worth a thimble o’mud. They say it was the Harriers got the boy prince. Others say it was some of that swill-belly Nin’s cravens who’ve been hiding up in the mountains all these years. Bah! That lot was driven into the sea at lancepoint—ever’ last one of ’em.”

  “Strange, though, how nobody has seen hand nor hair of them that took him. ’Tis very like the earth opened up and swallowed them whole, quick as you please. Nobody seen nothing,” said Otho.

  “I saw the king,” volunteered Pym. “This mornin’ on the road. Least I thought ’twas the king. Looked a king t’ me.”

  “Likely did. Likely did,” said Milcher, slapping the board with his hand. “Ham the butcher says the king rode in this morning all a-lather. Been riding like a wraith for days.”

  “Did he have his sword when you saw him?” Otho asked Pym.

  “What a question!” Milcher cried. “Of course he did. The Dragon King never goes anywhere without that sword. That’s what makes him invincible.”

  Otho did not back down. “That’s not what I heard.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward across the table so no one would overhear him, though there was no one else in the place. “I heard from Glenna, the queen’s maidservant—”

  “Glenna’s his sweetheart,” put in Otho’s mother, smiling a knowing smile. “Works in the royal kitchen.”

  Otho threw a warning glance in her direction but hurried on. “—that there’s talk in the castle that the king has lost his sword!”

  “Lost his sword?” Milcher gasped, staring wide-eyed at his son. “Bah!”

  “He never would!” said his mother in a hushed tone. “Lose the Shining One? Never!”

  Otho only nodded, his eyes squinted. “He rode out with it the day of the hunt. Everyone in Mensandor saw it—its great golden hilt gleaming from the scabbard at his side. We all saw it.” He put his finger in the air for emphasis. “But no one saw it when he returned.”

  “What happened t’ it?” asked Pym. His heart raced faster.

  Otho licked his lips. “No one knows.” His voice was a whisper. “But they say that if the Zhaligkeer is gone, the kingdom is ruined.”

  “Pshaw!” said his father uneasily. “Who would believe it?”

  “It could well be,” maintained Otho. “Could well be.”

  “The king is still king, isn’t he?” Emm glanced at her son apprehensively.

  “Aye, as long as he holds the sword. That sword is his power. Without it he is doomed.”

  “Doomed?” wondered Pym.

  “Aye, and you would be too. There’s some as says that Quentin isn’t the rightful king, not being blood and all.”

  “He was chosen, by the gods!” cried Milcher.

  “Chosen he was. But it was the sword that backed it up.” Otho inclined his head conspiratorially. “It is the work of the gods. They are angry with this new temple of his; they don’t like his chasing after that new god—that Most High. The old gods are going to humble him as an example to the whole kingdom to return to true worship with gifts and supplications.”

  Otho crossed his long arms and leaned back in his chair, smug in his rightness in the matter. The others looked at one another helplessly. Who was there to dispute what they had heard?

  If this was a matter between gods, who could intercede on behalf of mere mortals? Who could contest the gods?

  Once there was a resolute young man with a flaming sword who had the very hand of god upon him. He was strong, invincible. But he, too, had proven only human, subject to the wounds and errors of all flesh.

  How fickle the gods were. They had allowed him to prosper for a season; now they wanted their tribute, and even the Dragon King would have to bend before them. Blazing sword or not, they meant to have their due, and the king could not refuse them.

  The glittering dreams of the priest king and his wonderful City of Light were just smoke after all. Men were just the playthings of the gods.

  So it had ever been, and so would ever be.

  26

  If not for the urgency of their errand, Bria would have enjoyed the journey to Dekra. The days wore the golden-green mantle of fair summer; peace clothed the land and seemed to blossom from every bough. The dark deed of only a short time ago—a few days—receded into the past, more and more remote with every league.

  Only the throbbing ache in her heart reminded her that all was not well, that her son had been taken from her, that her world would never be right until he was returned.

  By day she rode with the others, keeping her spirits high—talking, singing, or steeping herself in the beauty of the day. By night she prayed; her prayers were not for herself, but for her son and her husband, that the Most High would keep them safe wherever they were. And sometimes in the night, when no one could see her, she wept.

&nb
sp; The queen and her companions, though unused to the rigors of the road, were well looked after by Wilkins and the other two knights, and were made as comfortable as possible. And owing to the smoothness of the king’s highway, they moved swiftly toward their destination.

  “Today we will cross beyond Celbercor’s Wall,” declared Alinea. Several leagues from their camp of the night before, though the sun was only a few hours up, they had stopped to eat some breakfast, and to let the princesses gather wildflowers.

  “Have we come that far?” asked Esme with some surprise. “I thought the journey would be much longer.”

  “Before the King’s Road, yes. Quentin’s work in extending the highway has made travel to this part of the kingdom the easier and more quickly done. We may reach Dekra by evening tomorrow if we hurry,” said Alinea. She pointed to the east and south where the mountains lifted their heads to the clouds. “Celbercor’s Wall runs from the sea into those hills of rock. Once beyond it, Dekra is only two days’ ride.”

  “Oh, then let us hurry, by all means,” cried Esme. “I have always wanted to visit Dekra. You have told me so much about it, I cannot wait to see it.”

  “It is indeed a most remarkable place,” said Bria. She gazed into the distance as if she were looking for the sweeping towers of the city to rise above the horizon. “The Ariga were a noble and beautiful people. Theirs is a city like no other.”

  “Yes, and much changed since I first saw it,” Alinea said, and began to tell them about the occasion of her first visit—the flight to Dekra in the dead of winter with Theido and Durwin, Quentin and Trenn; the wild midnight ride to the wall just ahead of the Harriers; Quentin’s near-fatal tangle with the poisoned talons of a Harrier’s hawk, and their anxious vigil over him as he lapsed into a deathlike sleep upon reaching the ancient ruined city; the extraordinary love and kindness of the Curatak who healed him.

  When she finished, Esme’s lovely features held a mesmerized look. “I have never heard the story before—oh, a piece of it here and there. But to hear it now like this . . .” She turned admiring eyes upon Alinea. “You were very brave, my lady. You and the others. It is a most remarkable tale. Now I want to see Dekra all the more.”