In the Hall of the Dragon King dk-1

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Durwin looked a little confused. “I cannot say how many Hoet intends to send with us.” He turned and went back to where the chief was standing, arms folded, chin resting on his breast. They put their heads together and began discussing again, hands groping as if to pull words out of the air. Finally, Hoet turned and whistled and waved his hand toward a group of men who were standing by the horses, admiring the animals, tack and gear. A slender young man, not much older than Quentin, came gliding over and presented himself to Hoet, who presented him to Durwin.

  “Here is our bodyguard and guide,” said Durwin, returning with the youth.

  “What?” exploded Trenn, flabbergasted. His eyes started out of his head and his mouth hung open. The young Jher did not seem a fair match even for one of his own people, let alone three blood-lusting Harriers.

  “This is Toli,” said Durwin, introducing him to the others. Then he went around the group saying each person’s name. Toli did not attempt to duplicate the sounds. He merely smiled and nodded politely.

  “When do we leave?” asked Theido with a sigh. He too had his doubts about the Jher bodyguard. He cast a quick glance overhead to see the once-clear sky had become overcast while they had waited for Durwin and Hoet’s deliberations to run their course.

  “Hoet suggests we sleep now. We can leave tonight. He also says not to worry; Toli will show us a secret way past the Wall which he claims the Shoth do not know.”

  SIXTEEN

  THE KING sat in darkness in the deep dungeon of Kazakh, Nimrood’s walled mountain keep. Around him lay the scattered pieces of his armor, now rusting in the dank jail’s seeping damp. His once-proud head fell forward dejectedly upon his chest and his sunken eyes were closed against the disgrace of his surroundings. His long, black hair and well-kept beard, once curling with vitality, now hung in limp tangles, filthy and matted, graying at the edges.

  Inwardly he cursed himself for his own stupidity and lack of foresight. So intent had he been upon returning home, so full of good spirits, he had dismissed his men to his commanders and, taking only a small bodyguard of knights, had set off straightway to catch the last boat before the raging seas of fall brought an end to the shipping season. They had boarded the ship and had, with some misgiving of the captain, sailed forth upon a sea running to chop and a sky glowering with pent-up fury.

  The storm had broken the fourth day out and the captain had made for the nearest port, the harbor Fallers at the far southern tip of Elsendor. The captain had wisely refused to go further, so Eskevar and his knights struck out cross-country. A day and a night out of Fallers they were attacked. A force of armed men had been waiting to take them as they entered a narrow canyon.

  The King and his knights fought valiantly, though greatly outnumbered, but at last had been overpowered. They were bound and thrown into wagons and covered with sailcloth and traveled for many days through rocky country. One of the knights, Ronsard, had been able to work free of his bonds and had escaped, recovering his horse and weapons, but having to leave behind his King and comrades.

  Ronsard had followed the wagons to their destination, a ship with black sails standing off a lonely stretch of coastland. He had followed hoping to seize an opportunity to free his companions. But when he espied the dark ship and its stout occupants he despaired of loosing his friends with his lone sword and had turned toward Mensandor with his message for the Queen.

  The months had passed, each day more unbearable than the one before it. King Eskevar refused to surrender to the hopelessness he felt closing around him. At first he had railed against his captor, his mighty voice kindled in righteous rage. The halls and galleries of Kazakh reverberated with his angry thunder.

  Nimrood had paced his chambers cackling maniacally, his wild eyes kindled with a fierce, unearthly light.

  After weeks of captivity, Nimrood had descended to his dungeon to at last cast his wicked eyes upon his prize. The King had challenged him, had begged for the freedom of his knights, had promised a stunning ransom, had demanded to know the reasons for his kidnapping. To this latter demand he had been told that his brother, Prince Jaspin, had arranged to have him kept comfortably and safely locked away until Jaspin wore the crown.

  Nimrood had left then, leaving his miserable prisoner alone to eat out his great heart in anger and frustration. The King had seen no other living person since that brief interview.

  Eskevar heard the scraping clank of an iron latch lifted and dropped into place again, followed by the squeal of unused hinges. Then he heard the pinging echo of footsteps on the spiraling steps descending to the dungeon. The jailer comes with food, he thought.

  Then he saw the flickering light of a torch playing on the rough rock walls of the narrow gallery that led along the row of cells. He listened and waited. From the shuffle he heard in the gallery he guessed there were more than the jailer alone. A torch thrust into sight, blinding his clouded eyes with its unwonted brightness. Sharp pains stabbed into his brain as he forced himself to look at the jailer.

  Eskevar struggled to his feet uncertainly, to tower over the jailer and his two scurvy guards.

  “You get back there!” screamed the jailer, thrusting the torch through the bars of the iron door. The old rusty door swung open and the two guards with lances at the ready stepped gingerly in. One prodded the King forward with the butt of his lance and the King tottered like an old man into the gallery. The dripping passageway was so narrow and short he had to hunch himself together, bending low to proceed. For good measure, and to remind the prisoner that he was under guard, the spear would jab him in the back periodically as they made their way to the spiral steps.

  Eskevar stumbled twice as they climbed the steps, but caught himself and continued the climb slowly and with great deliberation. He was buying himself time to restore some part of his strength and allow his eyes to become accustomed to the pale light which grew brighter as they ascended upward out of the dungeon.

  At last the King stepped out into fair light again; it seemed to dazzle his deprived senses. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with cool, clean air. He found his head cleared from the confusion he had fallen into of late. He straightened with difficulty and squared his shoulders and raised his head high.

  The party was ushered into the great hall where Nimrood sat waiting on his high black throne. “So, our prisoner lives still, does he?” hissed the necromancer. “Too bad; our pets will have to wait a little yet for their meat!” he laughed to himself, and Eskevar noticed the huge ugly head of a tremendous snake leering at him from beneath the throne.

  “Set me free or kill me,” said the King. “You shall receive no ransom and my brother will never sit upon my throne. The regents will never allow it.”

  “Perhaps not your regents, proud King. But several of your regents seem to have come under suspicion of certain foul deeds. Two of them are even now locked away in the bowels of Castle Askelon, awaiting their impending fate.”

  “You fiend!” shouted the King, dashing forward. One of the guards sought to block his path with lowered lance, but the King grabbed the lance and wrenched it out of the man’s grasp and shoved him back with the butt of his own weapon. He then swung the lance in a wide arc around himself, keeping the jailer and the other guard at a distance. Eskevar lowered the lance and advanced on Nimrood menacingly. The sorcerer raised his arms above his head and shouted an incantation, “Borgat Invendum cei Spensus witso borgatti!”

  “Your powers cannot…” the King started, then something like a leaden net dropped upon his limbs and he felt his strength leave him. He raised his mighty arm to loft the lance, but the weapon suddenly seemed to weigh as much as the dungeon door. The throw went soft and the lance skidded weakly upon the stone floor.

  “You shall see what my powers can do!” snapped the angry wizard. “I have been waiting for just this moment. Bind him! And take him to the tower.”

  King Eskevar cried out in rage, “Kill me now! If you miss this chance you will regret it for al
l eternity, black wizard!”

  The guards rushed upon the helpless monarch and bound him in chains. They dragged him out of the hall and to the tower where he was locked again in a strange room, not a cell, but a high-domed room painted with grotesque shapes and queer inscriptions. No sooner had he entered the room and the door slammed behind him did King Eskevar feel himself overcome with an unnatural urge to sleep.

  The heavy vapors of slumber seemed to drift out of the very floor beneath his feet. His head nodded and lolled on his shoulders, eyelids fluttering. His knees buckled and he crashed to the wooden floor where he attempted to rise again. The King gained his knees and knelt awkwardly, for his chains would permit but limited movement.

  “You will find the rest here refreshing, I think,” hissed Nimrood. Eskevar jerked his head up to see the sharp, twisted face of his tormentor at the barred slits of the door.

  “I curse your bones, necromancer,” spat the King. But even as he spoke his tongue went slack in his mouth, and his eyelids fell shut. He tried again to rise, but his legs could not support him and he dropped senseless to his side fast asleep.

  “Look your last upon the world as a mortal, great King. It is a rare gift I give you. When you awaken you’ll be one of my own Immortals. Sleep well.”

  SEVENTEEN

  IN THE four days since they had left the camp of the nomadic Jher, Durwin’s party had covered ground at a tremendous rate. They were all amazed at the skill and clear-thinking of their guide, Toli-none so much as Trenn who had severely doubted that they would last an hour more in the forest.

  But Toli knew the land like his own skin. He knew instinctively when a trail would veer and when to abandon one path and choose another. The forest seemed to hide no secrets from his alert eyes: in fact, this slim, brown young man read it as easily as Durwin read the scrolls he collected in such profusion. Quentin suspected that generations of following the deer had made the Jher more at home in the forest among the wild things than in the world of men. In this he shared the conventional wisdom, for the wary Jher were widely considered a people sinking back into animal ways rather than arising out of them.

  But a better guide they could not have found anywhere. And if there had been six like him, the company could not have been safer from discovery by the Harriers. Toli knew when to halt and when to move forward. He varied the times of their travel, never keeping to a determined pattern, but moving more like a cunning animal might, though still chiefly at night.

  Still, none of them doubted that the Harriers were yet behind them. Toli agreed that until they crossed the Wall there would be no safety. He and Durwin were often in consultation shortly before and after each day’s trek. Durwin began to grow visibly more apprehensive as they neared the great structure.

  The ancient architectural wonder had protected the realm of Mensandor for a thousand years from marauders and would-be conquerors. Now it stood as a warning of the strength and determination of the people of Mensandor to live free, for no enemy had dared to cross it with an army in anyone’s memory.

  Celbercor’s Wall as it was known of old rose to a height of four-score spans from the rocky, uneven ground to the jagged merlons which formed its battlements. The Wall was wide enough at the top for three knights to ride abreast or a column of men to move along with ease. It spanned a gray, barren stretch of land a hundred leagues in length from the inlet of Malmar where it jutted out into the water to the sheer rock curtain of Mount Ostenkell in the northernmost Fiskills.

  Celbercor’s Wall was intended to separate Askelon from the entire wilderland region of the Suthlands, but it had never been finished. Only the northern extremity running south from Malmar’s icy finger to the treacherous Fiskills had been erected, and that at dear cost.

  But it stood intact. A staggering achievement: seamless, without gap or breach imposed by the years, raised with such stonecutter’s art that no mortar was used-only stone fitted to stone, interlocked and assembled with exacting precision throughout its whole length.

  Quentin had never seen the Wall, but had often heard of it in stories. The thought of at last beholding it sent a tingle of excitement to his sandal-clad toes. But Durwin dashed any lighter mood when he announced to the assembled company, “Tonight we will cross the Wall, and most assuredly tonight the Harriers will try to stop us. Toli thinks they are not far behind and they probably already sense what we are going to attempt. We will be vulnerable once we leave the shelter of the forest.”

  “The forest will end about a league before the Wall, but there is a valley which runs along our course. We shall enter it and follow as long as we may.”

  “What then?” asked Trenn, his soldier’s ethics offended. He considered it a disgrace to slink away by night like cowardly dogs. Yet, he did not relish putting his sword to the test against three such formidable blades as those of the Harriers.

  “What then? Why, Toli will lead us to the Jher’s secret crossing. If we make it, I doubt if the Shoth will pursue us further. It would take them weeks to find a means to cross the Wall with their horses, and months to ride around it.”

  “How will we get our horses across?” asked Alinea.

  “Yes,” said Theido. “Are we to take our horses, or no?”

  Durwin called Toli to him and they spent a few moments together in discussion of this problem. Durwin turned with a grave look upon his face. “He does not know. The Jher do not have horses, so have never considered whether it is possible to bring them through. You see, the secret way is not over the Wall, but under it-a tunnel.”

  “Blazes!” muttered Trenn. He liked the scheme less and less.

  “Is it so bad to continue without horses?” asked the Queen.

  “It would be very difficult,” replied Theido.

  “Impossible,” put in Trenn.

  “Not impossible,” Durwin said. “Remember, Toli and his people live in the Wilderlands. He will show us how to get through them. They travel the land continually.”

  “Even so,” put in Theido, “Dekra is still weeks away-longer if we must travel on foot.”

  Quentin listened to this talk with a sorrowful feeling. He hated the thought of leaving Balder behind to become the prey of wolves-or worse, the Harriers. He turned away and went to the animal he had grown quite attached to in the short time they had been together.

  “They say you may be left behind, Balder. I would rather they left me behind,” he sniffed, a tear forming in his eye. “I don’t want to leave you.” He put an arm around the huge animal’s neck and pressed his cheek into the horse’s thick shoulder. Balder nickered softly and swung his head down to nip Quentin on the arm.

  “You are fond of this animal.” Quentin turned to see Theido standing near him, reaching up to pat Balder’s white forehead.

  “I did not realize it until just now.” He smeared the tear across his cheek with his sleeve.

  “It is nothing to be ashamed of. A knight must have a thought for his mount-in battle you are partners. And this sturdy warhorse knows how to protect his rider in a fight, I’ll wager.”

  “He will be able to fend for himself, won’t he? When we turn them loose?”

  “Yes, he will manage-better than we will, I should think. But I have no intention of turning them loose if it can be helped. We need our horses too desperately.” Quentin saw the look of strain in the tight lines around his friend’s eyes.

  “Is it that difficult, this road through the Wilderlands?” Quentin had not considered that it would be very much different than what they had experienced in the forest.

  “Yes. Worse than you can imagine if you have not seen it. There is no road, nor path nor even trail. The whole region is naught but thickets of brush and bramble resting on a queasy bog. At least we shall have the benefit of snow to firm our footing. But even with that we must be careful-many of the bogs are fed by warm springs underground. They do not freeze in winter, though the snow will sometimes cover them over. There are few more hazardous places for a company of
travelers.”

  Quentin took this news glumly and wished the journey was at an end. He was beginning to tire of the constant making and breaking of camp and the long cold intervals between. He had long ago stopped thinking about the Harriers and the terrors they held; after days of fretting constantly and lying awake through the night clutching his dagger, he had simply refused to consider them anymore. Now he was once again forced to wonder what they might do to him if he were caught.

  At dusk the party once more set out. The forest thinned around them as they pushed ever nearer the Wall. And so too did the awful dread increase. What lay behind them was not to be dwelt upon for any length of time.

  Quentin felt only partly more secure. For this run to the Wall Toli had been mounted with him on Balder, the largest of the horses. The two sat together comfortably, Toli occupying the place behind Quentin. Although the Jher had no horses of their own, they seemed to be unafraid of them, and tolerably able to handle them when given the chance. But Quentin, being the better horseman of the two, held the reins, and Toli directed the course.

  The group traveled a league and more single file behind Balder’s lead. The sky was dark overhead, moon and stars obscured by low, scudding clouds. So much the better, thought Quentin; maybe the Harriers would not see them at all.

  Finally they reached the edge of the forest, and without hesitation Toli led them out onto a wide expanse of barren hills where standing stones lurched out of the ground sharply and at odd angles. The landscape was a desolate waste, the exposed roots of the subterranean rock shelf that pushed up inland to form the Fiskills. To Quentin it appeared a lonely, forsaken place, bare and forbidding.

  Picking up the pace, Toli led them down a steep incline to the bottom of a broad gully which had been formed by the icy waters of spring cutting through the loose soil. Above them on either side rose the banks of this dry steam bed. Long icicles hung down from the lips of overhanging rock, and the slight wind which had risen behind them whispered over the craggy fissures.