The Sword and the Flame

by Stephen Lawhead

  Presently they came to a place in the road that looked to the tinker somehow familiar. “Ho there, Tip. This be the place, I’ll warrant. What say ye? Looks the place to me, eh? Yes, it does.” Pym gave a quick glance in both directions along the road to see if he had been followed, or if any other travelers were about to see him.

  They were alone, so he stepped quickly into the forest, pushing through a yew thicket to where the forest thinned somewhat and a trail wound among the trunks of trees.

  “Is this the place, Tip? I tell ye, I don’t know. Thought ’twas, I did. Now I’m not acertain.” After some time wandering among the trees, Pym decided that they had not remembered the right place after all and so retraced his steps to the road once more and set off.

  “Ah!” he cried a little farther down the way. “This must be it! Yes, how could I forget?” Again they pushed into the forest only to become disoriented before going very far. “No, sir.” Pym stood with his hand on his hip, craning his neck up at the tall trees surrounding him. “’Twern’t here. This’s nivver the place, Tipper. Back we go.”

  The noonday sun shone down through the interwoven branches above, casting a fretwork of cool shadow upon them as they trudged down the bare earth yet again. The farther they went, the less certain the tinker became. “I don’t know how I’ll ivver find it, Tip. I don’t seem to recall the place—ivverthing looks so unlikely hereabouts.” He stopped and stared around him. “I don’t know what to do, Tip. What we’uns need is a sign. That’s it, yessir. A sign!”

  So taken was he with the notion of a sign that Pym clasped his hands right then and there and raised them up to the heavens. “Hear me, ye gods!” At a sudden thought he added, “’Specially whativver god it is the Dragon King serves. I’ll warrant ye’d be more concerned with the king, so hear me, whativver yer name might be.”

  Pym paused here to consider how to proceed, nodded to himself, and then continued, “Ye see, the king has lost his son—snatched away he were, yes, and he needs his sword to get the boy back with. Now, I don’t know fer acertain that the sword we’uns found belongs to the king, but might do—’tis a handsome sword.

  “Now,” explained Pym carefully, “I have put this sword by in a safe place, ye see. Trouble is, I can’t remember me where. Don’t recognize this place no more, ye see—and me who’s been atraveling this road fer a score of years, too. That’s why I am calling on ye fer to help. I need a sign to show the way to the sword—where I left it, that is.”

  The tinker lowered his hands, thought for a moment, then raised them again and added, “It’s not fer me, it’s fer the king, ye see. He’s in trouble bad; he is, and likely needs his sword—leastwise it couldn’t hurt. Since yer his god, maybe ye could send the sign. That is, if ye have a care fer mortal troubles.”

  Pym stopped speaking, and lowered his hands. “Well, Tipper—,” he began, but before he could finish, the big black dog began barking. “Shh! What is it, lady girl? Eh, Tip? What is it?”

  Out from an immense gorse hedge stepped a black stag. Tip barked furiously, but the deer, moving slowly, regally, head high and antlers glinting in the sun like silver, remained calm and unperturbed. The graceful animal crossed the road, passing not more than a dozen paces in front of them, and then stopped to look at the man and dog watching him.

  Tip barked, her tongue hanging sideways out of her mouth, legs stiff, hackles raised. Pym laid a hand to her collar. The stag moved with lordly pomp once more into the forest, paused to eye the spectators one last time—as much as to say, “Follow me, if you dare”—then lifted its forelegs over a bayberry bush and leaped away, its tail bobbing white behind.

  Tip could not stay still any longer. She barked wildly and shook her head, pulling free of her master’s grip; the chase was on. “Tip! Come back here!” shouted Pym after the bounding dog. Tip reached the bay-berry bush, paused to yap once at her master, and then wriggled through the bush and after the deer.

  “By the gods’ beards!” muttered Pym, “I don’t know what’s come on that dog.” He could hear Tip yelping excitedly as she crashed through the brush after her game. Pym sighed and trudged off into the woods to retrieve his pet, knowing she could never catch the stag but would not give up easily.

  He shrugged through the brush and stumbled onto the trail, hastening after the sounds of the impromptu hunt. The trail widened as he went along, broadening as it reached a place where the giant old trees grew tall, clearing all other trees from beneath their overarching limbs: huge old chestnuts, oaks, and hazels. He did not stop to gawk at the trees, but rushed along, head down, calling for Tip to come back. Then, without warning, the dog’s yapping ceased. Pym plunged down a shallow bank and through a patch of creeping ivy and glanced up to find himself in a secluded hollow.

  Before him, on her haunches, sat Tip, wagging her tail and panting. A little way off from them stood the stag, head lifted high, bearing its crown of antlers as regally as any king, gazing calmly at them with its great, dark, liquid eyes. As the tinker watched, the stag lifted a hoof and nudged a stone at its feet—a white stone from a neat pile of white stones.

  “Tipper,” whispered Pym, hardly breathing. “Lookee there! The stag has led us to our spot!”

  The deer turned and regarded them casually once more, then lowered his head and trotted smoothly away, his flowing shape blending with the forest around him and vanishing from sight.

  Pym crept forward to the place where the deer had stood. “Yes, sir. This be the spot, Tip. Lookee, here’s the stones we’uns left to mark it, and here’s the hazelnut.” He tilted his head to regard the lofty tree, then walked around it to the hole in its hollow trunk. Taking a deep breath, Pym thrust his hand through the hole and grabbed.

  His hand closed on thin air. His heart leaped to his throat. Gone, he thought. Someone’s taken it! He shoved his hand deeper into the hollow space and stretched his fingers, feeling the soft damp interior of the tree, but no sword. Frantically he thrust his arm in again and searched the depths of the hidden space, feeling nothing but the spongy, rotten wood. “It’s gone, Tip!” he cried hopelessly. “The sword is gone!”

  Just as he was about to withdraw his arm, the tips of his fingers brushed against something hard. “What’s this?” he said, and pushed his arm back in up to the shoulder, as far as it would go, standing on tip-toes, straining so hard that sweat beaded up on his face and rolled down his neck.

  His hand closed on an object cold and hard. He gulped. Could it be? Yes! It was the sword! The tinker withdrew his hand slowly, and the hollow tree gave up its prize—a long, narrow bundle wrapped in tatters of rags.

  “Here ’tis, Tip! We’uns found the sword! Yes, yes! Lookee, Tip, here ’tis at last!” He cradled the bundle to him and then, just to make certain, peeked between the folds of the rags. He saw a dull gleam of metal and part of an inscription on the blade. “’Tis the veery sword, Tip. The veery one as we’uns left behind. Yes, sir.” He glanced guiltily around him like a miser who fears discovery with his treasure. “But we’uns dare not stay here, no sir. It’s back to Askelon and give this sword directly into the king’s own hand, eh? Quite right, yes. Directly into the king’s own hand.”

  So saying, the tinker took a length of twine from his trouser pocket and wrapped it around the sword’s concealed hilt and tied a loop through which he put his arm. He started off at once, slinging the mighty weapon over his shoulder, making for Askelon Castle to give his present to the Dragon King.

  Some way farther ahead on the road to Askelon, where Pelgrin thinned and gave way to farmland hills, a brown pony wandered riderless across a field of young corn, pausing now and then to nibble at the tender tops of the shoulder-high plants. This intrusion did not go unnoticed, for a pair of quick, sharp eyes had seen the animal from a distance, and the boy who looked out of those eyes was slowly and with utmost caution making his way across the field to intercept the horse.

  Renny forced himself to steal along stalk by stalk, row by row, all the while
his heart screaming at him to run and capture the wonderful creature before him. A horse! Who would have believed it? A horse wandering loose through his father’s field. If he could catch it . . . no, he would catch it, and then he would have a horse of his very own!

  Now he was close, very close. The pony stood nipping at the new leaves, unaware of the boy’s presence. Renny crept near and waited. The brown horse plodded a few steps nearer and paused to munch some unripe ears of corn just forming on the stalk. “Shhh . . .” said the boy, as quietly as a sigh. “There, now. Shhh . . .”

  He put out his hand to snag the animal’s bridle. Tarky saw the movement, tossed his head up quickly, and backed away with a loud whinny. “Easy now,” soothed Renny. “Easy . . . I won’t hurt ’ee. No need to fear. No harm’ll come to ’ee.” He approached slowly, the pony backing away step by step, tossing his head stubbornly.

  Renny moved closer, whispering endearments to the animal. But Tarky, skittish from his days of running wild in the forest, kept just out of reach, and at last tired of the game and turned to prance away. The boy realized it was now or never and lunged at the beast, diving head-long at it. Tarky gave a startled neigh and dodged away. But the youngster, with quick desperation and deft fingers, snatched up the dangling reins. The horse neighed in fright and reared, jerking its head away; but it was caught in the grasp of the most determined young master, and Renny refused to relinquish his find. He scrambled to his feet and grabbed the bridle, his heart thudding against his ribs with excitement.

  Then, as if he had been doing it all his life, the farmer’s son led his captured prize down the low sloping hillside to the house. Tarky gentled under the lad’s touch and allowed himself to be led away peaceably.

  When they reached the crude farmhouse, the boy loosed one wild whoop that brought his parents into the yard. “Look what I’ve got here,” Renny said proudly.

  “Where did ’ee get that?” asked his father when he recovered from the sight of his son holding a fine horse, both saddled and bridled, in his own yard.

  “Where on this green earth?” echoed his mother.

  “I found him,” replied Renny. “Found him eating corn in our field.”

  The farmer stared speechless at his wife, who returned his look with one of equal amazement. If the horse had materialized before them out of thin air, they could not have been any more surprised. And there stood their own flesh-and-blood son holding this creature—it sur-passed all belief.

  Lest there should be any misunderstanding of his claim or intent, Renny announced, “’Ee’s mine. I found him—’ee belongs to me, and I’m keeping him.”

  His father came close and raised his hand to stroke the pony’s flank. “’Tis a fairly fine horse—no doubt. But ’ee don’t belong here.”

  “’Ee’s mine now.” Renny tightened his grip on the reins and thrust his jaw forward with determination. “I’m keeping him,” he repeated firmly.

  “This must be a nobleman’s mount,” said the farmer, examining now the fine leather of the saddle and tack. “Doesn’t belong here.”

  The boy darted a quick glance at his mother for help, his lower lip quivering. The kindly woman came close and placed her hand on her son’s shoulder. “What your father means, Renny, is that this one must go back to his rightful owner.”

  “Sooner the better,” added the farmer.

  “I’m his owner now,” maintained Renny, his dark eyes filling up with tears. “’Es’s mine.”

  “No, son,” said his mother gently. She patted the slim shoulders and brushed his shock of hair from his eyes. “Someone’s bound to come looking for him. If you keep him, they’ll take him away.”

  “But . . . I found him!” wailed Renny. The injustice of it stung bitterly. To have his horse so swiftly taken from him in the moment of his triumph—it was too much to bear.

  The farmer frowned and turned stiffly away. Renny sobbed and his mother soothed, trying to ease the hurt. “I know what ’ee can do!” she said, brightening. “Take the horse to Askelon—people there will know who his master is. Methinks if ’ee return him hasty, there will be a reward in it for ’ee.”

  At the mention of the reward Renny stopped sniffling and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Reward?”

  “Maybe.”

  His father turned and added, “Why, that’s the answer! Take him to Askelon and claim your reward. Might bring a coin or two, a fine animal like this. A man’d be most hearty grateful to get him back, might give a good reward.”

  “I could ride him?” asked Renny tentatively. “Ride him to Askelon?”

  The farmer glanced at his wife and scratched his jaw. “Well, now, Renny, I don’t be—”

  “I know how to ride!” Renny said quickly. “The Dragon King him-self taught me, remember?”

  “By my lights, ’ee did,” agreed his father. “But it’s a far ride, and you’d have to walk back all alone.”

  “I don’t care,” shouted Renny. “Could I take him? Please?”

  “If your mother says so, I say so,” hedged his father.

  The woman looked at the light dancing in her son’s eyes and did not have the heart to dash it out. She nodded slowly, “I’ll fix ’ee a ruck-sack to take with ’ee so’s ’ee won’t get hungry on the way.” She turned and went into the low-built farmhouse.

  “I’ll ride him all the way to Askelon!” crowed Renny. “And I’ll claim the reward!”

  37

  Esme! Esme, wake up!” Bria exclaimed, shaking the arm of the sleeping woman.

  “What? Oh!” Esme said, jerking awake with a start. “Oh, my! It was a dream!” She turned and gazed at Bria and Morwenna bending over her, and raised a shaking hand to her temple. “I must have fallen asleep . . . but it was so real—not like any other dream I’ve ever had.”

  “You cried out.” Bria glanced at Morwenna, who nodded and took one of Esme’s hands in her own.

  “We did not know where you had gone, my dear,” said Morwenna. “When we turned around, you were no longer with us. We were looking for you when we heard your cry. How are you feeling now?”

  Esme shook her head slowly, but the images of her dream remained as vivid as before. “I believe I am well. I was looking at the pictures and became sleepy; I rested my head on the bench for a moment and dreamed a very strange and unsettling dream.”

  “Tell us, if you wish,” offered Bria. “Can you remember it?”

  Esme nodded vigorously. “I am not likely soon to forget. I can still see it as if it happened right here moments ago.” She paused; her eyes looked past them and into the world of her dream once again. “I was standing on a high plateau . . . ,” she began. But Morwenna held up her hand.

  “Wait, my lady,” Morwenna said. “There is one among us who is highly skilled in the unraveling of dreams and their meanings. Come, we will go to him at once, and he must hear your dream.”

  Esme rose to her feet. “It is important? It was just a dream.”

  Morwenna stopped and took Esme by both arms. “There are many ways in which Whist Orren chooses to speak to his children. Dreams are one of his most important means of revealing himself, and they are not treated lightly in Dekra.” She smiled quickly and added, “But come, we will hear what our dream reader has to say.”

  The three left the Ariga library, passing among the tall ranks of honeycombed shelves and tables stacked with scrolls, back up the stair-way and through the narrow courtyard to the street. Morwenna led them a little way farther along the street to a blue-tiled arch in a white brick wall. She pushed open the gate and ushered them into a green expanse of garden filled with flowering shrubs of many kinds.

  “What a wonderful garden,” said Bria. “Who lives here?”

  She indicated the tiny house at the far end of the garden pathway.

  “That you will see soon enough,” replied Morwenna. She raised her hand toward a huge, spreading sycamore standing in the center of the garden, and beneath it a figure propped up in a high, wide
bed. Beside the bed another figure, that of a woman, bent near the one on the bed. This second figure Bria recognized as that of her mother.

  “Mother, what are you doing here?” asked Bria with some surprise when they came up. Then she glanced at the figure lying in the bed beneath cool white linens. “Biorkis! Oh, forgive me.” She blushed, embarrassed, “I meant to come to you sooner. Please forgive me for shunning an old friend.”

  Biorkis, bald as a coot now, but his beard longer and whiter than ever, squinted his eyes merrily and replied, “No need, no need! You have been very busy since you came, I know. A queen’s time is not her own. Alinea has brought me your greetings, and I’ve met your daughters—lovely little creatures, I must say. Just like their mother.”

  “I have only just sent them away with the other children to play,” said Alinea. “Biorkis and I were talking about”—she hesitated—“about the news of the kingdom.”

  Biorkis started forward. “I am no stranger to trouble; there is no need to shelter me from its pain. I have lived long enough to know that fretting over it does no good.” He paused and favored them each with a long, appraising gaze. “Yes, here you are. And though trouble brought you, I am glad to see you, my friends. It has been a long time.”

  “Too long,” said Bria, “and for that I am sorry. Sometimes we do not remember how much our friends mean to us until we see them again.”

  “Do not be sorry for this old badger!” protested the aged priest. “I am not sorry for myself, nor should anyone be who is loved and cared for as I am here. Look! I am old and cannot walk anymore, so what do they do? They carry my bed outdoors for me! And in return I tell them stories and read to them from the old books. This, they claim, pleases them; so I am allowed to stay.”