The Sword and the Flame

by Stephen Lawhead

  They sat on the warm rocks, listening to the calls of seabirds wheeling overhead and the lap of water murmuring to the rocks at their feet. In a little while they saw a wide, flat boat plying toward them across the water.

  “Good day, my ladies,” greeted the ferryman when he had brought the boat into the narrow, rock-lined channel that had been cut into the shore. “A good day for travel. Going to Dekra, is it?” He eyed them each with good-natured curiosity.

  “Yes, we are,” replied Alinea.

  “Allow me to fetch you across first, if you please. Then I’ll return for the coach and horses.”

  “Thank you, Rol,” said Bria.

  The man turned and looked at her carefully. “My lady? Do I . . . it is! I am sorry, Your Highness! I did not recognize you!” He bowed quickly, reddening with embarrassment.

  “It has been some time,” laughed Bria. “And I am hardly dressed the part of a queen.”

  “No, my lady.” Rol bobbed his head. He said no more, but went quickly to his work. In no time the passengers were sitting on the broad benches at the bow. Wilkins stayed behind with the animals and the coach.

  Rol worked the long oar with his wide strong hands, and the ferry moved out slowly into the deeper channel, floating to meet the current that would carry them across the water.

  At Malmarby their arrival was greeted by a score of barefoot children who had flocked to the docks to see the strangers. Travelers were still not so common an occurrence that they did not draw laughter from inquisitive youngsters, as well as amiable stares from their elders.

  “I was deeply distressed to hear what happened to young Prince Gerin,” said Rol as he led them up a long, planked ramp.

  “You have heard, then. Now you know why we ride to Dekra,” replied Bria.

  “Everyone has heard, my lady. Some of us had gone to the hunt. I was there when . . . we know what you must feel. But the Dragon King will find the evil snakes that did this, I know.”

  “We are praying for the prince every moment,” said Alinea.

  “Yes, my lady,” said Rol. “Perhaps they can help at Dekra. There is much power there.”

  “Thank you, Rol,” said Bria.

  “If you would excuse me, my lady.” He bowed again and shoved the boat back into the inlet. In no time at all he was back with the coach and horses.

  The queen and her entourage remounted and moved on. “I will be here when you return!” shouted Rol, who raised his arms and clapped his hands, shouting and scattering the children in front of him like chickens.

  The travelers passed through Malmarby and entered the marshy low-lands beyond. The country in Obrey was wilder, more sparse and open. It changed at once from that on the other side of the inlet, becoming a more forbidding place so that the traveler might well feel he had left the hospitable world behind and entered a land untamed and unpredictable, where anything might happen.

  “The coach can go no farther,” announced Wilkins. Little more than a league out of Malmarby, the track had all but vanished. Wilkins had just returned from surveying the trail ahead. “Even on horseback it will not be easy.”

  “I had quite forgotten how wild this land is,” said Bria. “What do you advise?”

  “Leave the coach,” the driver replied. “One of your bodyguards can ride one of the coach horses, and I the other. Alinea can take the knight’s mount, and the princesses can ride with me.”

  “Let me take one of them, at least,” offered Esme.

  “And I the other,” said one of the knights.

  His comrade dismounted and offered his saddle to Alinea, who accepted. “Thank you. It has been too long since I have ridden bare-back, and I do not think I could manage the feat now.”

  Wilkins and the first knight began unhitching the horses, then rearranged the baggage, distributing the necessary items among the riders and abandoning the rest along with the coach, which they hid in a bower of young maple saplings and wild ivy. When they had finished, all were mounted once more, and they continued on their way happily, if more slowly.

  “My lord,” said the chamberlain softly as he rapped on the door, “Lord Theido and Lord Ronsard have come. They ask that you receive them at once, Sire.”

  Quentin sat slumped in his huge chair, staring into the cold ashes on the hearth before him. His eyes were red from lack of sleep. His hair was in disarray and his features coarse and haggard.

  “Send them away,” he croaked. “I will see no one.”

  “But, Sire, they insist!”

  “How many times must I tell you?” the king shouted, seizing a silver cup from the table at his hand and heaving it at the chamberlain’s disappearing head. The cup struck the door, splashing red wine, like blood, over the embossed wood and onto the floor.

  He heard voices in the anteroom and then quick steps. His door was flung open, and in came Theido, with Ronsard close on his heels.

  “My lord, we would speak with you,” said Theido tersely.

  “We do not think it right that you closet yourself, receiving no one,” added Ronsard.

  “It seems you give me no choice,” said Quentin. He did not so much as turn his eyes toward them, but continued staring into the ashes as if they were the ashes of his own life, now dead and spent.

  “This is not like you, Quentin,” said Theido, deliberately using his name.

  This brought nothing but a mirthless smile to the king’s lips. “See? The truth: I am no king and never was. I only played at being king, and my friends humored me as they would a child.” He laughed, an aching, hollow sound. Then he turned his face toward them and asked, “Where is my son?”

  One look at his fearful countenance and both men inwardly gasped —so great was the change that had occurred since they had seen their friend last. Gone was the youthful man full of vigor and quick strength, keen-eyed and alert, always sharp as the point of a lance and eagerly winging through life with the reckless vitality of an eagle soaring above the clouds for the sheer joy of soaring.

  This man before them appeared as one who had lived in darkness for years, bereft of hope and brittle with despair. One wrong word and he might collapse upon himself in tears or fly into a foaming rage.

  “The men are combing the hills and villages beyond Pelgrin. We will find him, Sire.” Theido tried to sound matter-of-fact, though the sight of his distraught king disturbed him greatly.

  “We would have come sooner . . . ,” began Ronsard. His voice failed him, and he turned away.

  “Go away,” said the king.

  “My lord, we would speak to you as friends.” Theido took a step toward him. “Please, I ask as a friend, hear us.”

  “Friends,” Quentin mumbled. The word was a curse upon his lips. He passed a hand over his eyes and then asked again, “Where is my son?”

  “He will be found. Trust in it; he will be found.”

  The Dragon King shot an angry look at the two knights. “Trust in it! He says to trust that my son will be found!” His voice rose higher as rage leaped up in him like a flame. “Trust, eh? Trust what? Trust you? Trust the Most High? Ha! There is nothing that a man can trust. Everything deserts him in the end. Youth fades. Love grows cold. The works of his hands disintegrate—or are torn apart by his enemies!”

  The king lurched up out of his chair and took up the long iron poker from the hearth as he began to pace back and forth. “The gods, my friends, the gods! Sooner trust in the weather; it is less fickle than they. The gods taunt a man, build him up so that they may laugh at him when they dash him under the wheels of misfortune. Great sport! See how he writhes and tears at his flesh! See how his heart turns upon him-self; see how his pain devours him!”

  Theido and Ronsard could only stare at this tirade.

  “The Most High!” continued the king. “Do not speak to me of the Most High. He is more subtle and more wicked than all the rest! He tortures his victims with dreams and visions of glory. He prophesies and promises. He delivers their enemies into their hands and rais
es them up far beyond their rightful place.

  “And then he takes it all away. Takes the man’s very heart out of him, strips him of all he holds dear in life and casts him bleeding into darkness! That is the Most High, God of gods! And fool is he who trusts in him!”

  With that Quentin threw the poker. It smashed into the table, knocking over a tray of food that had been sitting there cold and untouched. Silver utensils scattered and clattered to the floor.

  Quentin staggered, holding his head, and fell back into his chair, exhausted.

  A stunned silence hung like a pall over the room. Ronsard touched Theido on the arm, nodded toward the door, and the two left quietly, closing the door behind them.

  27

  Never have I seen him so.” Ronsard gestured with his hand toward the chamber they had just left. He spoke in an astonished whisper. “He is not himself.”

  “The weight of his dreams has fallen upon him, and he is being crushed beneath it.” Theido shook his head sadly.

  “Dreams are one thing, but he raves as one gone mad!”

  “If he feels the depths of his sorrow more deeply than other men, it is because he has trusted the Most High more than most.”

  “If he falls the farther, it is because he flew the higher, eh? Would that Durwin were here. He would know what to do.” Ronsard sighed heavily. “I miss that old hermit.”

  “Aye, and so do I. But we must do the best we can. The kingdom depends upon it, I think.”

  “What shall we do?” Ronsard shrugged helplessly. “Until the prince is recovered, there is nothing to be done.”

  “No,” said Theido slowly, “I perceive there is more to his torture than the prince’s disappearance.”

  “Or Durwin’s death?”

  “Or Durwin’s death. Though both of those weigh heavy on him now, I believe he could rise above them if not for his loss of faith in the Most High.”

  “What can we do about that?”

  “Find the sword.” Theido looked steadily at his friend. “Find the sword and return it to him before someone else takes it for himself.”

  “I am all for it, sir. Only tell me how to do it, and it will be done.”

  “I would tell you if I knew, count on it. I only know that we must recover the sword—and soon.” Theido put his chin in his hand and stood for a few moments in deep thought. Ronsard watched him and waited.

  He said at last, “Ronsard, you must go alone and begin the search.”

  “And you?”

  “I will stay here, close to the king. He may need a stout companion nearby.”

  “As you say, Theido. But where shall I start?”

  “That is the puzzle. But I think I have a plan that will be useful to us. Are you game to try?”

  “I will do anything.”

  “Good; then come with me. There is no time to lose.”

  The first thing he felt as consciousness returned was something cool running down the side of his neck. Blood? He raised a hand and felt the side of his head where the blood started.

  The movement brought a throb of pain to his aching head. He moaned.

  “Toli? Are you alive?”

  The voice was hushed, but nearby. He opened his eyes carefully, then squeezed them shut again quickly, the light sending blazing fire-balls through his brain.

  “Ahhh!”

  “Just lie back. Do not move,” the voice urged. Toli tried to place it.

  In a moment the throb in his head eased somewhat, and he opened his eyes, shielding them with his hand. The bare stone room was dim. The light slanted down in a single brilliant band from a narrow window high up in the wall. He lay on a straw pallet on the floor opposite the window.

  He turned his head to the side; his vision wavered, but he made out the form crouching beside him on folded knees.

  “Prince Gerin! Oww! What did they do to my head?”

  “They dumped you in here. I was afraid you were dead.”

  “When was that?” Toli pushed himself up slowly on his elbows. Each small movement brought a new stab of pain through his head.

  “Do you not remember?” asked the prince. He offered again a bit of cloth soaked with water that he had applied to Toli’s head.

  Toli took it and placed it against his forehead. “I remember nothing,” he said. “No—I remember coming to the temple and asking to see the high priest. I saw him, I think—talked with him. The next thing I know, I am waking up here.”

  “The high priest?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that where we are? The temple?”

  “It must be,” replied Toli. He looked around the cell and at the door, which was not the door of a castle dungeon, though it was heavy oak and strong enough to keep a prisoner from breaking free. “Did you not know where you were also taken?”

  “No, it was dark. And they blindfolded me. It seems we walked for days. Then I was shoved in here. Days ago. That is the blindfold you are holding.” Gerin indicated the damp rag.

  “I see. How many days?” Toli studied the prince carefully, searching for any signs of mistreatment.

  “Three, I think—maybe four. Yes, four. Two before you came.”

  “I have been here two days?” It did not seem possible.

  “This is the second. How do you feel?”

  “I will live.” Toli reached out a hand and patted the young prince on the shoulder. “You have done well, young sir. I am glad to see you alive. How have they treated you?”

  “Well enough. I am fed from their table and have good water.” Gerin looked eagerly at his friend, glad to have someone he knew with him, though both were prisoners. “Toli, what has happened?”

  “I scarcely know.” He shook his head slowly. How do I tell him? he wondered.

  “I know about Durwin. I have been worried for Father.”

  “He is well. He is searching for you—for us. Ronsard and Theido, too.”

  “Poor Durwin,” said Gerin. Tears came to his eyes. “Oh, poor Durwin.”

  “Your father was with him when he died. He died at peace.”

  Gerin sniffed, trying to hold back his sorrow. But he had been brave so long; now that a friend was here, he could let go. The sobs came, and the tears washed down his face.

  Toli put an arm around the boy’s slim shoulders. “It is good to cry. He was your friend. There is no shame in tears of mourning.”

  When Prince Gerin could cry no more, Toli gathered him close, speaking softly. “I do not know why this has happened, but there is some evil behind it, you may be certain. Priests do not leave the temple to murder and kidnap the innocent—that is, they have never done so before. Why they should start now, I cannot say.” He looked at Gerin closely. “But we must find out what it is they plan. Think now. What did you see?”

  The prince was silent for some moments, then raised his eyes to Toli and said, “There were six of them, five of them swordsmen and one other—the leader. I heard them talking about him.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They do not like him much. That is all.” He thought for a moment, and added, “And the one who told about Durwin—he said that the king had killed one of them in the road.” He looked at Toli questioningly.

  “That may be true. If so, it is another matter to weigh on his heart.” Toli was silent for a moment, then added, “Well, it is done. Perhaps there is yet some better purpose behind it. We must hope so.”

  The two talked and comforted each other. The day, measured by the slanting band of light as it moved across the floor and up the opposite wall of the cell, stretched on. Toward evening a priest came in with two bowls of water and a large trencher of food. The door was opened, the food slipped in, and the door closed and bolt thrown—all in an instant.

  “This is how the food is brought?” Toli asked.

  “Yes, every day. I think they are afraid I will try to escape.”

  “Have you tried to escape?”

  The prince nodded. “Once—on the road. Tarky reare
d and I fell, or was grabbed. That is when he ran away. It was not far from here.”

  “A horse with Tarky’s sense can find his way back home, or some-one will catch him and take him to the king. Either way I believe some-one will soon think to look for us in this direction; the king will find us, you will see.”

  Gerin nodded, but said nothing.

  Toli patted his shoulder, saying, “Never fear, young sir. I will not let anything happen to you.” The words almost stuck in his throat. Even if it costs my life, he thought, I will not fail you again.

  28

  What for you, my good fellow?” Milcher rubbed his pudgy hands on his sopping apron and grinned good-naturedly at the stranger. “Are you new to Askelon?”

  The sandy-haired man, dressed in the clothes of a common laborer —leather jerkin over a brown tunic and baggy brown trousers—leaned against the bar. “A jar of your dark, if you please, sir,” he replied. “Are you the inn master?”

  “Aye,” said Milcher. “I am the keeper. But my wife is the master.” He gave the man a great wink. “Dark it is, and the best in all Mensandor, some say. I myself prefer it.”

  The innkeeper turned away for a moment to fill the jar, and the man took advantage of the lapse to study the interior of the inn. The Gray Goose was full tonight. There was a hubbub of conversation, which was normal, but this overlaid a churning current of excitement. An atmosphere of expectancy thickened in the place as dense as the smoke from the pipes of the patrons, which curled toward the low-beamed ceiling. Ale jars clinked, and men drank and talked in strained, nervous voices.

  Ronsard had felt it the moment he walked in—this tingly, anxious suspense. It was as if they were all gathered there waiting for something to happen, knowing that something would happen, wanting it to happen.

  Secure now in his disguise as a peasant, there was little chance of discovery; he was not a frequenter of inns and did not live in Askelon any longer, so it was unlikely he would meet anyone he knew. Ronsard turned back to Milcher, who was laying the pewter jar on the board. “Strange mood, tonight, eh?”