The Paradise War

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  I glanced quickly over my shoulder to Findargad towering above, estimating the distance. “The fortress is too far. We will never make it.”

  “We must,” Tegid spat. “If we can reach Dun na Porth, we have a chance.”

  We hastened to the king. Meldryn did not seem dismayed, or even much surprised, by the news. He turned his tired eyes toward the mountain pass, then raised the signal horn to his lips. An instant later a shrill blast cut the chill wind with the sharp note of alarm. Even as the first warning echoed and reechoed among the cold rock crags, people instinctively responded. Other warning blasts were sounded down the line, and within the space of three heartbeats everyone was running, staggering, slipping, sliding, floundering through the snow toward the protection of the fortress above.

  The pass that Tegid had indicated was just ahead: Dun na Porth, Gate of the Fortress—a steep-sided notch through which the trail passed before rising to the aerie whereon Meldryn Mawr’s mountain stronghold perched. I entertained scant hope that we could reach the sheltering walls. Indeed, as the people hurried by, struggling in haste, Tegid—at the king’s command—summoned the warriors to arms.

  I threw off the cloth wrap protecting my sword and strapped the chill metal to my hip. Wrapping stiff fingers around the cold shaft of my spear, I ran down the trail to join the other warriors at the rear, pausing only to lift to their feet those who stumbled and to set them on their way.

  Prince Meldron scowled at me as I fell in with the other warriors, but he was soon too busy to begrudge me a place among his own. Once the last of the stragglers had passed by, we formed a tight wedge, blocking the trail from one side to the other. To reach our kinsmen and the king, Lord Nudd’s infernal war band would have to slay us first. I did not know whether demons could be killed, nor even if they could be fought with sword and spear. Still, if a demon could feel at all, it would feel the bite of my blade.

  As the battle line formed, I found myself near the center in the second rank of warriors. We held our spears at the ready, over the shoulders of the rank before us. As Tegid and the king led the main body of our people upward into the pass, we advanced slowly back down the trail toward the onrushing enemy. At the sight of our tight-formed ranks the demons raised a weird, unearthly cry: plaintive and furious at the same time, a cry of demented wrath and torment intended to breathe despair into the most resolute will. The numbing wail assailed us on the wings of the wind, yet we stood our ground; and, as the Coranyid drew near, we welcomed them with taunts, banking our courage high with loud battle cries.

  Few of the demon warriors wielded formal weapons; I saw only an occasional sword or spear gripped in clawlike fingers, and some carried fire-blackened clubs. Most came on empty-handed—but not for long. For, as they swarmed nearer, they tore rocks from the trail and from the mountainside and pelted us with stones. We were thankful indeed for the protection of our shields.

  The demon battle leader sent the wolves before them. Whether the Coranyid had been using the wolves all along, or whether they had merely turned the beasts’ natural ferocity to their own purposes, I do not know. But the starving, fear-maddened animals, driven to frenzy by their inhuman masters, rushed upon us without heed. There was no sport in the killing. We met them with the points of our spears as they leapt, and they died snapping their cruel jaws at the blades that pierced them.

  Behind the wolves came the main body of the Coranyid. Warriors hardened to battle, fearing neither pain nor death, trembled to see Lord Nudd’s fell war band. Truly, this was a terrible array: skull-headed, swollen-bellied, spindle-limbed loathsome deserters of the grave; misshapen monsters each and every one. Naked, malformed, half-human fiends they were, malicious servants of an even more abhorrent master. More than one man shrank from the sight, and it was not accounted to their shame.

  Though I searched the teeming throng, I could not see their loathsome lord. I little doubted that he was near, however, directing the onslaught from some unseen vantage. For I felt the waves of sick dread break over me as the horrid hellspawn advanced. Instinct told me this feeling was more than the repulsion inspired by the enemy’s gruesome appearance. Lord Nudd was near. I could feel him, feel the despair and futility his presence inspired.

  At the same time, I remembered the hope which Tegid and I had discovered in the ashes of Sycharth: the enemy was not omnipotent. Far from it! Nudd’s only weapons were fear and deceit. Surrender to those and he would win. Defy him and his attack would founder. He could not fight against men who did not fear. This was his weakness— though perhaps his only weakness.

  The first of the Demon Horde reached us, shattering the air with their appalling shrieks. The forerank of warriors stumbled backward as the screaming battle host threw themselves headlong onto our weapons. Black bile and curdled blood gushed from their wounds and we were suddenly engulfed in a sickening stench. The stink was almost stupefying; a stomach-churning fetor that caused the gorge to rise in our throats. Strong men gagged and puked, tears streaming from their eyes. Vile as the sight and sound of the hateful creatures was, the stench was worse—overwhelming the warriors’ mettle. The foreshank faltered, sagged, and then broke, as brave men turned their backs and ran from the fight.

  Within moments Meldryn’s dauntless war band was in full rout, streaming back up the trail toward the pass, with the demons and wolves in howling pursuit. Prince Meldron strove mightily to turn his men, crying, “Hold! Hold, men! Stand and fight!” But they could not hear him above the drumbeat of panic in their own hearts.

  I ran too. Hemmed in on all sides, I could do nothing else, lest I be trampled in the crush. We reached the pass of Dun na Porth. I looked up at the sheer rock face of the stone gate and paused, thinking that here a few might hold the trail against many. I stopped and turned to face the oncoming flood.

  One black wolf carried a screaming demon on its back as it leapt, snarling, on the heels of a fleeing warrior. As I thrust through the streaming throng, the animal saw me and veered to the attack, mouth agape and foaming, teeth bared. I let the beast draw near, then lowered my spear and thrust it down its open throat. The wolf reared, clawing the air, choking and gagging on its own blood. The demon made to leap upon me, but Prince Meldron rushed forward and, with a quick downward chop of his sword, parted the demon’s skull in a single stroke. Both demon and wolf expired in a heap at our feet.

  Another demon skittered close, swinging a gnarled root around its flat, reptilian head. The prince struck aside the club, severing the demon’s arm in the same blow. His next thrust pierced the foul creature through; it toppled backwards with a gurgling of exuded gas and pus. Meldron laid low another of the repugnant creatures with a single stroke as it made to leap upon him. And, with as many strokes, I sent two more back to the pit whence they came.

  “They slaughter more easily than sheep!” exulted the prince. “There is no skill to it. We will have to work twice this hard to earn our glory.”

  It was true. The demons displayed no knowledge of warfare, or skill at arms. They could swarm and overwhelm, but they could not stand toe-to-toe against a warrior; they could hurl rocks and swing clubs, they could rip with their tusked teeth and hooklike claws, but they could not present an ordered attack. Still, there were hundreds of the demonspawn and only the prince and myself to hold them. We might quickly succumb to their numbers. We stood in the gap, meantime, hewing at them, stroke on stroke, razing them like weeds before the scythe.

  The wolves were more dangerous. Their strength and speed, their ferocity in the fight, made them more than a match for a man. But the demons had roused them to such frenzy, they forgot their natural instinct and simply hurled themselves at us. I had only to let one come close and thrust my spear and the wolf either died or fled— tearing at its wounds in maddened fury.

  I heard something behind me and spun ready to strike. “Stay your hand, brother!” came a loud voice. It was Paladyr, leading Prince Meldron’s Wolf Pack back to the fray. Simon—Siawn Hy—stood next to him
. They had seen our stand against the enemy and had returned to join the fight.

  “Now that the battle is won, you come to claim the victory,” scoffed the prince. “Leave us! We are all but finished here.”

  “Nay, Prince. Did you think we would let you steal all the glory for yourselves?” answered the champion. “Come, there is more than enough for all.”

  “Prove it, then,” replied the prince. “But with your sword—not your tongue!”

  “Watch me!” shouted Paladyr. And with a great cry, he lifted his sword and thrust into the midst of a dozen demons advancing in a knot. He was a wonder to behold! Every movement honed sharp, flawless as gold, and lethal as the blade in his strong hand. He slew with every stroke. He was the millstone, and the enemy was the grain he crushed, their tangled bodies heaped around him like shapeless husks.

  Siawn gave a piercing, ear-shattering scream and leaped after the king’s champion, matching stroke for stroke and thrust for thrust. Wherever Paladyr strove, there was Siawn at his shoulder. Their quick-flowing blades rose and fell as one. Lest we lose place to them, Prince Meldron and I redoubled our efforts. Together we hewed a wide swath through the onrushing demon tide, wading into the battle with reckless courage.

  Seeing how accommodatingly the Coranyid perished, more warriors rushed to meet the foe and soon Dun na Porth was filled—not with snow, but with the odious bodies of the Demon Host. We bent our backs to our labor, and a mighty work it was. Despite the cold, the sweat of battle ran from us; our breath clouded the air, and steam rose from our wet heads.

  The stink made the tears run from our eyes and flow in rivulets down our cheeks. But the warriors steeled themselves against it and encouraged one another with bold words and shouts of valor. Shoulder to shoulder we stood against the squirming, writhing, noisome onslaught. Stroke by stroke we bettered them. We might have overcome them completely, but there were too many, and darkness was coming on.

  As the light began to fail, it became more difficult to see the wretches. Yet they seemed to experience no trouble seeing us. Indeed, their strokes became more accurate as ours grew less so. Their assault strengthened while our defenses began to falter.

  The reason was obvious: Darkness was their element. They could see in the dark. They had attacked Sycharth and the other strongholds in the dead of night. They could strike us in the darkness before we knew the blow was coming. Even so, we fought on long after it was foolhardy to do so. And we suffered for it.

  As the deep Sollen darkness finally claimed the mountain pass, and the howl of the wind drowned out the cries of the Coranyid, Paladyr turned to the prince. “I am no coward, but I cannot fight what I cannot see.”

  “Nor can I,” Prince Meldron replied. “By all means, let us save some to fight tomorrow.”

  Retreat on the twisting mountain path in the dark was difficult. We struggled upward, feeling our way toward the stout gates and high stone walls of Findargad. Never was I more grateful for a heavy gate at my back than on that night as I tumbled into the fortress yard, to be met by kinsmen bearing dry cloaks and cups of steaming ale. They pried the weapons from our stiff fingers and pressed warm cups into our hands, helping us to swallow the first gulps of the soothing drink. Those who could not stand, they carried into the hall. Those who could walk, they led.

  Findargad was well stocked and provisioned. Those who had gone before us had readied everything, taking all that was needed from the fortress stores. The hall was ablaze with the light of scores of torches, and warm from the blaze of three enormous hearths. The boards before us were laden with food—though many of us were too exhausted to eat. We sat on benches before the hearth, hunched like old men over our ale, clutching our cups to our chests, sipping the life-kindling liquid.

  The king moved among his warriors, Tegid by his side, lauding their bravery, praising their skill, offering each the word required to restore strength of arm and renew courage of heart. Meldryn Mawr had not fought beside his men, but he had watched the battle from the rampart until darkness stole the sight from our eyes.

  When they came to me, Tegid said, “The king wishes me to tell you that he marked your courage. It was the saving of many lives.”

  “Great King, I am sorry I could do no more,” I answered, for truly I never felt less like a hero than I did then. “Perhaps, if I had not run with the others, we might have prevailed against them. As it is, I did nothing your own son did not do.”

  King Meldryn whispered something in Tegid’s ear, and the bard spoke it out to me. “Though you may not know it, you have done something the prince did not do. You have stood by your king in all loyalty when others did not. Even the prince cannot boast as much. This is accorded to your renown: you have never dishonored your king through disobedience.”

  They moved on. I was too tired to take in the full meaning of the king’s words then, but soon I would have cause to brood long over them. And I would learn to rue every syllable.

  31

  KING’S COUNCIL

  By day and night the Demon Host prowled outside the walls, while we kept watch from the ramparts. Now and then one ventured close and, seizing a handhold among the stones, skittered up the wall. Quick as spiders, the Coranyid could climb. And if we were not alert, the demon might reach the rampart itself. Then the nearest warriors would stab the thing with their spears and heave the obscene carcass over the wall. Usually, however, a vigilant warrior would hurl a rock upon the creature’s wicked head and dash out its watery brains before the odious thing had scaled halfway.

  Each defeat served to keep the rest of the demons at bay for a time. I cannot say why. They seemed to possess no fear, yet could not bear the loss of one of their number. It infuriated them. Those nearest the incident would shriek and scream, raising the most horrendous din.

  Always, day or night, we stood in the cold and wind wrack, keeping vigil lest we be overcome. As the days drew on, more demons joined the battle throng. We could see them toiling along the mountain pathways, summoned by their dread lord’s wrath to the place of slaughter. Of Lord Nudd we saw no sign. But we often felt his lurking presence—a sudden laboring of the heart, a pang of nausea in the stomach, a daunting distress, a lingering despair.

  Still, we were safe behind the stronghold’s high walls. Rage though the demons might, they could not penetrate the stones like spirits, nor float over the ramparts like ghosts. As long as we kept the gates barred against them, they could not gain entrance. If we did not let them in, their rage and fury remained impotent.

  The first days after reaching Findargad, we rested; we nursed our wounds and mourned our dead. The flight had exacted a terrible price. Of the six hundred who had begun the journey, fewer than four hundred remained; of these, only eighty warriors and horses enough for sixty. It might have been worse, of course, but that was no consolation. Any loss is lamentable. The fact that we had succeeded in gaining Findargad, against every obstacle, appeared a small thing in our eyes compared to the loss.

  On the sixth day of the demon siege, the king summoned those of his chieftains who were still alive—five in all—with the prince, Paladyr, and Tegid, to his council chamber. I, whose duty it was to remain always with Tegid, went too; and, although I had no right, I was included in the council.

  Tegid it was who spoke the summons, and Tegid who opened the proceedings. The king sat in a chair of stag horn, lined with rich furs. The others sat on the stone-flagged floor upon brown and white oxhides. A crackling fire flamed in the hearth around which they all sat. Tegid stood at Meldryn Mawr’s right hand, his left hand resting on the king’s right shoulder, so that there would be no doubt by whose authority the bard spoke. I found a place to sit near the door so that my presence would not trouble anyone.

  When all had assembled and taken their places, Tegid began. “Wise chieftains, Boars of Battle,” he said, “hear the words of your king, and give him the benefit of your wise counsel.”

  Tegid inclined his ear to the king’s mouth, and Meldryn cha
rged him with the words to say. “Thus says the king,” said Tegid, straightening slowly to address his listeners. “Strong are the Llwyddi, and proud in the strength of our arms. In battle we shrink not from any foe, neither do we falter in the defense of our realm. The indignity of defeat was not known among us from the time of our fathers to this.”

  Meldryn Mawr nodded as Tegid finished, leaned close, and whispered something more; then he raised his right hand and touched the bard on the mouth. Tegid straightened and turned to those gathered around the firepit.

  “Thus says the king,” he intoned. “Our homes have been destroyed and the land laid waste. Wolves gnaw the bones of the brave, and ravens feast on the flesh of our children. Ashes drift like black snow where once fine halls stood; sheep and shepherd alike are slaughtered; timber walls are broken; stout houses have become tombs; hearthstones have been overturned and sweet mead poured out on the thirsty ground to mingle with the blood of good men. The owl and the fox cry where laughter once sounded. The kite and hawk make nests in the skulls of poets.

  “More bitter to me than defeat are the deaths of my people; more bitter than the destruction of my strongholds is knowledge of evil in the land. We are men. But we are not like other men. We are Llwyddi: rulers in this worlds-realm since its beginning. It is not in us to yield our lands to the oppression of usurpers. It is not in us to yield place to murderers. It is not in us to forget the blood debt.

  “Chieftains, hear your king! The voices of the slain cry out from their graves for vengeance; the innocent dead require recompense for the lives which were brutally stolen from them. It is the duty of the living to honor the dead. It is the duty of the warrior to slay the foe. It is the duty of a king to protect and defend his people, and to provide for them.

  “I am Meldryn Mawr. I provide for my people in life and in death. Though the foe slay me, the sovereignty which I have held will continue; the kingship I have borne will not be extinguished.