The Paradise War

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Still the odd feeling and the bewildering certainty persisted. I heard a voice—my own voice, maybe, but coming from a faraway place—as if whispering down a distant corridor, saying, It is true, Lewis. You know it is true. You know where the aurochs has gone. Say it! Speak the words!

  I pushed the uncomfortable thought aside and lay down upon my calfskin before the fire. Tegid had strewn armfuls of pine needles over the snow for us to sleep on. I stretched out before the fire with my cloak over me. Taking Tegid’s advice, I had my spear ready to hand and my sword was at my side. Twrch curled beside me, his nose resting on my arm. It was a chilly bed, but more or less dry.

  I closed my eyes, but sleep remained far off. I knew I would find no rest until I admitted to myself that what I had imagined might actually be true.

  But how to acknowledge such a thing? It was ridiculous. Absurd. And yet . . . what if ? I rolled over and pulled my cloak more tightly around me.

  Say it!

  I sat upright, throwing my cloak aside. The mound, the spear— Simon’s spear, in fact—and the wounded aurochs itself . . . It all made sense, and none of it made sense. Yet, what if ? What if ?

  Stumbling to my feet, I left the campfire, snatching up my cloak as I strode away. Tegid called after me, but I did not answer him. Instead I walked out along the perimeter of the camp, my head throbbing with the question: How could this be? The thing I was thinking was impossible. How could it be?

  As I stumped along, another voice assailed me: A breach has opened between the worlds, and anything may stumble through.

  I stopped in my tracks and admitted what I suspected: the wounded aurochs, in its terror and pain, had stumbled through an open portal into the other world—the world I had left behind and all but forgotten.

  But how could this be? How could the aurochs we had chased that day be the same one that had brought Simon and me to the Otherworld in the first place? How could the spear I had held in my hands at Farmer Grant’s breakfast table be the very same spear Simon had thrown?

  I did not know. But I was certain of one thing: I loathed being reminded that—no matter how I tried to forget, no matter how I pretended otherwise—I was a stranger here, an interloper, a trespasser. When all was said and done, I did not belong in the Otherworld. And, as much as I might want to—and I desperately wanted to—I could not stay. The thought filled me with despair. For I could no longer conceive of any other life than the one I had come to know. The day I return to my own world, I told myself, will be the day I die.

  When I grew cold, I turned my footsteps back to the campfire. Tegid was waiting for me. He fed more wood into the fire as I wrapped myself in my cloak and sat down. “Meldryn Mawr is a very great king, very wealthy,” he said abruptly.

  “That is true,” I replied. I did not know this for a fact, but I believed it to be so, for I had seen much evidence of his wealth.

  “Have you ever seen his treasury?” the bard asked.

  “No,” I answered.

  “He does not keep one.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “It would be an offense against sovereignty,” Tegid told me flatly, and at last I understood that we had returned to our previous conversation regarding the nature of kingship.

  “But he does amass wealth,” I said, feeling some pressure to defend my assumption, though I had no idea why. “There is gold and silver; there are jewels and such. I have seen them.”

  “The wealth exists for the king,” Tegid intoned. “And the king exists for the people. A king uses his wealth for the good of all, to the increase of his clan. He looks only to the welfare of the clan, never to his own.”

  “The people take care of the king,” I mused, “and the king takes care of them.” It seemed a tidy arrangement. What could be better?

  “Do not dismiss it lightly,” Tegid warned, breaking a twig between his hands and throwing it into the fire. “The king does not belong to himself. His life is the life of the tribe. A true king lives out of himself, owning no life but that which he gives to his people.”

  I considered this for a moment. “And Meldryn Mawr is a true king.” Indeed, I had never doubted it.

  “Yes.” Tegid’s affirmation was solid and assured. “He is that.”

  I had no idea why Tegid felt it necessary to make this point to me. And he dropped the subject as brusquely as he had begun. We turned to our sleep then, but not for long. It seemed I had only closed my eyes when the howling began.

  I was awake and on my feet, spear in hand, before I knew what had awakened me. I glanced around quickly. Tegid sat nodding before the fire. He raised his head. “They have finished with the horse,” he said. “And their scouts have been watching us. Now they have returned to tell what they have seen.”

  Wolves are canny creatures, quick-witted and aggressive. The cries resounding through the forest around us were of a most unsettling kind—not at all like those we had heard earlier. These howls were sharp-edged and keen, cutting the cold night air like knives.

  “In the mountains,” Tegid said, “the wolves grow larger.”

  “Why have we not heard them before tonight?”

  “They have been following us for several days, waiting for this time.”

  “Will they attack?”

  “This is a hard Sollen. It is cold, game grows scarce, and they are hungry. When their hunger overcomes their fear, they will attack.”

  The howling increased, growing louder as more wolf-voices joined the weird nightsong. Rapacious, insatiable, savage, and feral—it was a sound to terrify, to unnerve, to paralyze. I felt the sound in my bowels and fought the urge to flee.

  King Meldryn, a spear in his hand, hastened toward us. Tegid rose and went to him; they talked together and then Tegid turned to me. “Go with the king,” he said. “Whatever happens, stay at his right hand.”

  The king strode to the fire, stooped, and withdrew a burning branch. He offered me the firebrand and took another for himself. We then hurried away to the horses. The king had ordered the horses to be picketed at the edge of our camp in small groups of eight or ten, between the forest and the river; the line stretched from one end of the camp to the other. We positioned ourselves at the head of the first picket. Other warriors quickly joined us, each a few paces from the next, and soon I could look along a line of shimmering torches stretching the length of the camp.

  Brushwood had been hastily gathered and heaped at intervals along the rank. As the cries of the wolves drew closer, the brushwood was put to the flame. We waited, gripping our weapons, the forest echoing with the wild wails. This continued for a time and then ceased abruptly. In the sudden silence, the hiss of the torches sounded loud in my ears.

  I strained into the darkness. Cold, moonless, black as pitch—the night clung close around us, and I could see little beyond the limited circle of the torch in my hand. The wolves would see us long before we saw them. I heard a rustle in the distance behind me, spun to meet the sound with my spear, and saw Prince Meldron and the king’s champion, Paladyr, running toward us. Both held spears and torches and ran through the snow with some urgency.

  They proceeded directly to the king. “Father and Lord,” said the prince, “allow me to take my warriors to meet the wolves. We could keep them from the camp—they would never reach the horses.”

  The king listened to his son, watching him in the fluttering torchlight, but made no reply. The prince glanced at Paladyr, drew a deep breath, and pressed on. “Father, a single line makes no sense—it is certain to break. And what will happen when the torches fail? We cannot keep the fires going all night. As soon as the fires begin to fail, the wolves will attack.”

  The king did not answer. “Did you hear me, Father?” demanded Meldron, his voice rising. “Grant me leave to ride the wolves down. It is our best protection!”

  As I stood looking on, Prince Meldron appealed to me. “You will ride with me,” he ordered. To the king he added, “But, Father, we must ride now, while we still may.” A
s I had not moved, he turned again to me. “Well?”

  “I am honored to be included among your warriors,” I answered. “But my place is with the king.”

  “I have command of my father’s warriors,” he said angrily. “I say you will ride with me.”

  “I must beg your pardon, Prince Meldron. Tegid has commanded me to abide with the king.”

  “And I am commanding you to ride with me!” the prince shouted. “I lead the war band, not Tegid.” He railed at me with supreme self-assurance. Paladyr, grim and imposing beside him, did not appear so certain, however. He nervously jabbed the snow with the butt of his spear.

  “Again I must beg your pardon, lord,” I replied. “I have pledged myself to serve the bard, and Tegid has commanded me to remain with the king.”

  “Tegid!” the prince cried in frustration. “Tegid is not in authority over me! His is not the place to command! You will do as I bid!” He made to step toward me, but the king held out the shaft of his spear and halted his son.

  Perhaps Tegid heard his name uttered, for we heard a shout and turned to see him hastening toward us. “What is wrong here?” he asked.

  “You!” the prince snarled. “I command the war band, not you. It is foolish to stand here waiting for the wolves to attack us. I say we must ride to meet them and drive them away.”

  “The king has commanded otherwise,” Tegid replied softly.

  “Father!” Meldron spat. “Tell this insolent dog of a bard that I command the warriors!”

  Tegid stepped close to the king, and Meldryn Mawr whispered something in the bard’s ear. Tegid then turned to the prince. “The king has heard you,” he told the prince coolly. “He wishes to remind you that he holds authority over all that passes in his realm. He bids you return to your place and defend the people as you have been ordered.”

  Prince Meldron stood glaring for a moment, and then, with a snarl of impotent rage, threw his torch into the snow. The firebrand sizzled and sputtered out, whereupon the prince spun on his heel and hurried away.

  Paladyr looked first to the king—who watched him without expression—and then glanced at the prince’s retreating back. He stood for a moment undecided. Then the champion turned and hastened after the prince.

  “So be it,” Tegid murmured. “Paladyr has chosen.”

  I did not fully understand the implications of the event I had witnessed. Nor did I have time to dwell on it further, for someone down the line sounded a warning cry. I looked in the direction of the shout and saw a ghostly flickering among the trees.

  I turned my gaze to the forest before us, and at first could discern nothing in the darkness. Even as I watched, however, I caught the faint glint of a golden eye like a spark darting through the trees, and I heard the whisper of swift, almost silent feet.

  I did not see the wolf until it was almost on top of me, and it was much larger than I expected. I had imagined a creature the size of one of our hounds, which were far from small. Tegid had warned me that the wolves were big, but this animal seemed nearer in size to one of our ponies!

  Long-legged, lean, gray, and swift as smoke on the wind, the wolf came. A more fearsome sight would be hard to describe: narrow eyes like glowing coals burning in his head; long, gaunt snout above slavering jaws filled with jagged white teeth; a bristling coat, dark-striped across the high shoulders and spiked with fury. In all, it appeared an apparition conceived to inspire horror and panic in its prey.

  Certainly, I felt the terror of its appearance and quailed within myself as it bounded nearer. I saw the cruel teeth, the burning yellow eyes, the long bones beneath the stiff-bristled fur. I tightened my grip on the spear, couching the ash shaft between my ribs and arm. Less than a dozen paces separated it from me.

  If the beast had attacked, I do not know that I could have stood against it. But just as the ghastly thing cleared the last tree with a rush, it turned aside. Given the length of the animal’s ground-eating stride, the wolf might have leaped clear over me and into the midst of the horses. Instead, it ran snarling and growling along the king’s torch line.

  In no time at all, this first animal was joined by no fewer than six others—including one huge black brute that was their lord. I glanced away to the forest for just a moment, and when I turned back there were ten more. An instant later, there were no fewer than twenty. They raced back and forth along the torch line, snarling, snapping their jaws furiously.

  The tumult was unnerving, and rightly so. This fierce display was meant to send us into a rout of terror and confusion. Once we broke ranks, the wolves would charge through us and drag us down from behind. That is their way. Wolves lack nothing in courage, but they will not fight if they can more easily gain the advantage through stealth or bluff.

  When we held our ground, the beasts howled in black fury. Now and again, one of the wolves would dodge toward the line, teeth flashing; the men would shout, thrust their spears, and the wolf would break off its attack and scramble out of range of the spears once more.

  “They are testing our resolve,” Tegid observed. “If we show them no weakness, they may leave us.”

  Judging from the ferocity of the wolves’ determination, I thought this unduly optimistic. The harsh cold had made them hungry and bold. Also, they had seen the horses—and the horses had seen the wolves! The frightened animals whinnied and neighed, tossing their heads hysterically, eyes white with terror.

  Still, the wolves did not attack. They did not like the torches, and they did not like the gleaming spears in our hands. They could howl and rage, but they could not get at the horses as long as the line remained unbroken.

  The king’s simple plan had worked. We had only to remain steadfast in our places and the wolves would not attack. Despite their dismaying size, the wolves were neither hungry nor bold enough to risk the fire and weapons in our hands. Harrowing though it was to stand before them, we were safe.

  Indeed, I saw that the wolves were quickly tiring; the frenzy of their assault rapidly exhausted them. Soon they were no longer so fleet of foot nor so loud in their challenge. The dodging feints came less frequently. Their tongues hung out and their gaunt sides heaved.

  Presently, the black wolflord stopped in his tracks, stood panting for a moment, then turned and loped back into the forest. He was conceding the victory to us. We were safe. No one had been hurt, and we had not lost a single horse. We had won. The wolves were withdrawing.

  I was about to say as much to the king. I turned my head and drew breath to speak; Meldryn Mawr was smiling. But before I could even utter a word, I heard a loud battle whoop. The smile disappeared from the king’s face as he glanced beyond me down the torch line. I spun toward the sound and saw—far down the ranks where Prince Meldron and his warriors stood, I saw someone dashing after the retreating wolves. He was waving a torch and calling for others to follow him.

  It was the prince. The defensive line broke as the prince and the warriors of his Wolf Pack gave chase to the wolves of the forest. “They are mad!” cried Tegid. “They will get us all killed!”

  The bard made to halt them. “Stay!” he shouted. “Hold the line!”

  If they heard him, they paid no heed. The prince and his men were too intent upon catching the wolves. Someone threw a spear, and I saw one of the last wolves struck in the hindquarters. The animal yelped in pain and fell. Whining, the wounded beast began dragging his hindquarters in an effort to dislodge the spear.

  The man ran to the wolf. A long knife flashed, and a moment later the wolf lay dead in the snow. The warrior—it was Simon—retrieved his spear and raised a cry of triumph. He turned and lofted his spear, urging others to follow. Inspired by this feat, more warriors broke ranks and hastened after the wolves.

  The warriors disappeared into the forest. Their torches flickered through the trees; their shouts and the howls of the wolves rang in the darkness. And then, so suddenly it could not be anticipated, the wolves appeared once more.

  Whether they had been hiding
nearby or had turned to the attack after drawing the men away, I cannot say. However it was, the wolves simply appeared and without the slightest hesitation streaked through the gaping hole in the rank where Prince Meldron and his men had been standing only moments before.

  In the space of two heartbeats all became chaos and confusion: men running, horses rearing, spears flashing, and torches being flung this way and that. The shouts of men and the screams of the horses drowned out all else.

  “What are we to do?” I cried, turning to Tegid for an answer.

  “Stand firm!” he replied, as he began running down the line to recall the men. “Stay with the king!” he called back to me.

  We stood our ground, and the wolves did not attempt to attack us. They centered their attack on our weakest place and ignored the rest of the line. Tegid flew to the place, but before he could close the hole in the ranks, some of the horses broke free of the picket and bolted. Men leaped for the trailing bridle ropes, and threw themselves into the horses’ path, trying to turn them back. But to no avail.

  The horses, terrified of the wolves, the noise, and the fire, could not be turned. They fled into the forest. The wolves seized the opportunity and gave chase, and as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The wolves were gone, and a good many horses with them.

  We stood waiting for some time, listening to the cries of the wolves and the screams of the horses as they crashed blindly through the forest undergrowth; but the wolves did not return. The sounds of the chase receded, becoming fainter as the pursuit hastened away from us. And then we heard nothing.

  When it became clear that the attack was ended, the king threw down his torch and began walking down the line to the place where the prince and his warriors had abandoned their posts. I hesitated for a moment, and then followed. Tegid had told me to stay with the king, after all. Together we hurried to the place of attack.