The Sword and the Flame

by Stephen Lawhead

  The heavens darkened, stars swung from their courses, and Pym collapsed in the road.

  39

  Renny, riding the prince’s brown pony, jogged along the well-used track leading to Askelon. He sat erect in the saddle, pretending to be a knight returning to the realm from quests and adventures in faraway lands. He fancied himself returning to the king’s service after a long absence to find his name on the lips of his countrymen and peers, his deeds sung in halls great and small throughout the kingdom.

  Yes, to be such a knight, he thought, would be any man’s greatest dream. He would give his life for it—for one hour in the armor of a knight in the saddle of a genuine warhorse. Tarky trotted easily along, Askelon Castle showing misty in the distance over green fields. The world seemed calm and lazy in the warmth of the day, and Renny despaired of finding any adventure on the way, for with every step the castle and its city drew nearer.

  Then, as horse and rider reached the bottom of a hill and started up the opposite side, they met another rider galloping fast the other way. The stranger passed by them in a flurry of hooves, his short cloak blowing out behind him, the charger’s tail streaming. He did not so much as glance in the boy’s direction, but thundered by, eyes ahead and hard.

  “That’d be a nobleman most like,” said Renny to his mount. “An’ one fleeing something, by the look of it. Maybe highwaymen!”

  At once his young head was filled with images of a fierce conflict with a band of ruthless robbers in which he, Sir Renny, bested the whole pack and sent the brigands scrambling back into the Wilderlands where the cowards belonged.

  Enticed by such impossible heroics, Renny urged the brown pony to a faster pace as they climbed the hill. Then as they reached the crest and the road stretched out before them once more, Renny saw the scene he had just imagined: a group of brigands menacing a helpless traveler. The only difference he could see was that the highwaymen were on horseback and the poor traveler afoot. He loosed a wild yelp, kicked his heels into Tarky’s flanks, and galloped to the rescue, never thinking that he had no weapon and would not have known how to use one if he had it. Nevertheless, Renny dashed for the thick of the fray with visions of glory dancing before him.

  It was about this time that Lord Ameronis and his friends heard the young rescuer approaching. Renny saw a sword lifted up about to strike and gave vent to another war whoop, urging Tarky to greater speed as they came flying down the hill, elbows flapping, legs akimbo.

  Here it was that the lords prevailed upon their leader to spare the tinker and to make clean their retreat with the king’s sword. They all turned at once and galloped toward Renny, who swallowed hard, put his head down, and charged into them.

  At the precise moment of collision, Renny squeezed shut his eyes. He felt the air buffet him as the riders swept by, and then heard the sound of their retreat behind him. When he opened his eyes again, he was alone in the road, the highwaymen sprinting away and disappearing over the hill. Ahead of him, the wayfarer lay in a heap at the side of the road. Renny clattered to a halt, threw himself from the saddle, and dived to the man’s aid, rolling him over in the dust. Blood ran freely from the cut on his mouth, and a raw bruise welted on his jaw. Tip licked her master’s face, cleaning away some of the dust and blood.

  Pym’s eyelids fluttered open weakly. “Ohh . . . ,” he moaned.

  “Good sir, are’ee alive?” asked Renny, eyes wide as pot lids.

  “Ohh . . . me head. Ow! They’ve kilt me good,” he said, struggling to get up.

  “Easy there,” said Renny, raising him to a sitting position. “I come to help ’ee.”

  Pym, eyes watering from the throbbing in his head, squinted at his young savior. “Who are ye?”

  “Renny, sir,” he replied, as if the name should have preceded him and would explain it all. “I came upon ’ee here beset by brigands.”

  “Eh?” Pym turned his head and saw that his attackers were indeed vanished. “Ye saved my life! They meant to carve me to a treat. Yes, sir. Ye saved me, young master! Thankee, oh thankee!”

  Renny glowed with this admission. Yes, he had saved the man’s life, just as a knight would have done. He had forced a band of cutthroats and, unarmed, routed them and sent them fleeing for the Wilderlands to escape his justice. “Who were they?” he asked seriously.

  “Oh, a bad lot, young master. A bad lot they were—all of them evil. They were going to put me head on a spike, they were. Yes, I stood a dead man ’til ye came arunnin’. Oh, thankee.”

  “Did they steal anything?”

  At this the tinker began to tremble. “Ohh! They took the sword!”

  “’Er sword?”

  “Not mine. No, nivver mine! Oh, no. The king’s sword! They took it—one called Ameronis; he’s the very one as did it. He wanted to carve me up and put me poor head on a spike.”

  “Ameronis? Lord Ameronis? I have heard tell of him.”

  “A bad one. Oh, yes. Very bad.”

  Renny thought for a moment. “How could ’ee have the king’s sword?” he asked, scratching his head. “’Ee mean the Shining One itself ?”

  “None other.” Pym nodded solemnly. “We’uns found it in the road a few days ago. Didn’t know it was the Shining One then and hid it. Yes, hid it in a tree. We’uns went back fer to fetch it early this morn and were bringing it back fer the king. He needs it something powerful.”

  Renny studied the situation carefully, weighing what the man had told him. “Well,” he said at length, “there’s nothing for it but to ride straightaway to the king and tell him what happened.”

  “I agree.” Pym rose unsteadily to his feet, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “Can ’ee ride? The pony is sturdy, and we’re not terribly far from the castle.”

  “I think so.” Pym nodded, and then squeezed his eyes shut with pain. “Oww! He caught me a good’un then, he did. That’un I’d like to repay.”

  With Renny’s help Pym clambered into the saddle, then let down a hand to hoist the boy up behind him. They swayed uncertainly and started off, Tarky bending his head low with the extra weight, but making sure-footedly for Askelon.

  The shadows of the high curtain battlements stretched across the inner ward yard by the time Theido and Ronsard had assembled their men to begin searching for the sword. All afternoon the ward yard had been in turmoil as knights and men-at-arms were outfitted for a search such as Mensandor had never seen. Ronsard spared no one from the task, unless they could not serve better in some other way, and horses were saddled and provisions laid in for many days on the trail.

  “This is war,” said Ronsard to Hagin, when the warder protested the plundering of his stores. “If we fail, the Dragon King falls. I see no reason to hold back a reserve—we would only be inviting our own defeat.”

  “Do not speak of defeat,” replied Theido, overhearing. “It will be difficult enough as it is. War, you said? Worse than war—our foe is time, and time wins all in the end.”

  “Not this battle,” replied Ronsard grimly. “I mean to win this one.”

  Just then a gateman came running up, saluted Hagin, and blurted out a message. “Warder, sir, there’s someone at the gate demanding to see the king. I told them the king sees no one, but they insisted. I didn’t like to trouble you, but they will not go away.”

  “What do they want?”

  “They will not say, sir.”

  “Then send them packing,” ordered Hagin, “with the edge of your sword, man.”

  Theido and Ronsard, about to turn away, heard the gateman say, “There’s two of them on one brown pony, and—”

  Ronsard spun around. “A brown pony?” His senses prickled.

  “What is it, my lord?” asked Hagin.

  “Bring them,” ordered Ronsard. “And the pony. At once.”

  The gateman dipped his head and ran off to fetch the visitors as instructed. “You have a reason for this, I’ll warrant?” said Theido. Hagin looked on quizzically.

 
“It may be nothing,” replied Ronsard. “But I remember someone saying that the prince rode a brown pony on the day of the hunt.”

  “Aye, he did. It was his favorite,” offered Hagin. “What of it?

  There must be dozens of brown ponies in the region hereabouts.”

  “As you say, but two do not ride unless there is some urgency, and they do not arrive at the castle with demands for the king.”

  “I can see what you mean,” said Theido. “But you think this can possibly have anything to do with us?”

  “That we will quickly discover, I think.” He looked across the yard where the gatekeeper approached leading a pony; two hesitant figures trailed behind.

  In a moment the gateman had brought the visitors—a thin, gangly boy and a slump-shouldered man—and their mount to stand before the knights and the warder. “Here they are, sirs. As you requested.”

  “Tinker, we meet again,” said Ronsard. “Hagin, would you examine the horse? I think some of us may know this animal.”

  “We’uns did not steal it, Yer Lordship,” replied Pym. “But how do ye know me?”

  “I was the wretch whose head was broken at the Gray Goose the night the king’s temple was pulled down.”

  Pym’s eyes opened wider in recognition; he nodded knowingly. “Same as what happened to me not three hours ago.”

  “This is the prince’s mount and no doubt.” Hagin patted the pony’s neck. “That’s the prince’s saddle and tack. The animal came from the king’s stables—that is a fair certainty. If you like, I will call the stable-master. He would know better than anyone else.”

  “That will not be necessary,” said Ronsard. He looked at the two before him. “Well? You had better tell us all about it.”

  “I found him, sir,” said Renny in a small, awed voice. Here he was in the inner ward yard of Askelon Castle where knights and horses, squires, and men-at-arms hurried to ready themselves as for battle; he could hardly take it all in. “He came into our field below the forest. I caught him.”

  “The pony?” Ronsard smiled; light twinkled in his eyes. “I see. And then what did you do?”

  Before the boy could answer; Pym broke in. “I’ll tell ye what he did. He saved my life, that’s what he did. We’uns—”

  “You and the boy?”

  “Me, and Tip, sir,” said Pym, motioning to the dog.

  “I see. Go on . . .”

  “We’uns were bound fer Askelon and were set upon by highway-men and brigands—leastwise I thought they were highwaymen and brigands, I did.”

  “Highwaymen?” asked Theido. “In this part of Mensandor?”

  Pym nodded vigorously. “They caught me and took the sword.”

  “They took your sword?” asked Ronsard. “When does a tinker have need to carry a sword?”

  “Not my sword, Yer Lordship,” explained Pym. “The king’s sword!”

  40

  Theido was the first to react to the news. “You found the king’s sword?”

  Pym nodded solemnly; Renny nodded, too, and Tip wagged her tail. “We’uns found it in the road days ago now . . .” He lapsed into silence, remembering what else they had found.

  “Next to the body of a man—isn’t that right?” prompted Ronsard.

  Pym nodded slowly and thrust his hands out. “But we’uns had nothing to do with that! No, sir. Nivver lifted hand against any man me whole life long. No, nivver did.”

  “We believe you, tinker,” said Theido. “What you have told us fits with what we already know. What did you do with the sword when you found it?”

  “Hid it, sir. We’uns hid it in a hollow tree, we did. A hazelnut tree in the forest. But we’uns did not as much as know it were the king’s sword—not at first.”

  “But when you found out, you went back for it. Is that right?” Ronsard had formed a picture in his mind about what must have happened—the tinker coming upon the sword in the road, frightened, hiding the weapon and coming to town, hearing the talk, and determining to bring back the sword. “You intended to give it back to the king?”

  “Yes, sir, very much. That’s what we’uns planned all along—well, maybe not at first. Didn’t know it was the king’s sword at first. No, didn’t know that.”

  “Who took it from you?” asked Theido. “You mentioned highway-men.”

  “Six of them there were. Two passed while we’uns rested aside on the road. Then three more—nivver paid me no mind—but the last one nearly knocked me down in the road, he did—came a’charging along that way. We’uns nivver seen him ’til he pitched to a halt. Then ’twas he saw the sword and took it. I hanged on as might as I could, but he caught me a blow or two on the jaw.” Pym rubbed the swollen bruise gingerly. “This ’un here”—he indicated Renny—“saved old Pym’s hide, he did. He rescued me, and him just a lad—but with spunk, yes, sir! Lots o’ spunk has he. Yes, and he flew into them and sent them slinking away like a pack of mangy curs!”

  Ronsard regarded the boy closely. “Is this true, young master? You defended the tinker here from the brigands?”

  Renny nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.

  “Brave lad,” remarked Theido. “Well done. Not many would take on six armed men alone and with no weapons. What made you do it?”

  Renny opened his mouth, and the words tumbled out. “I’m going to be a knight, sir. Knights are brave and help those as needs help.”

  “Indeed!” Ronsard agreed. “But were you not afraid?”

  “No, sir. Not until Pym told me who they were.”

  “Oh? You know who they were, Pym?” Theido leaned forward.

  “We’uns heard a name—the one as took the sword. It was—”

  “Let me guess,” put in Ronsard. “Ameronis?”

  “The very one!” cried Pym. “That’s the very one. And a mean one he is, sir. Mean as the night is long. Yes, he is.”

  “I thought so!” said Ronsard. “Well, here is our battle, already drawn for us. There can be no doubt where the rook has taken his prize.”

  Theido pulled his chin and gazed out across the yard. “To that snuggery of his on the Sipleth.” He turned to Ronsard. “That is set-tled, then; we prepare not for a search but a siege!”

  After receiving the letter of ransom, Quentin had taken to his bed in despair; he had not moved all day. Paralyzed by a crippling helplessness, he lay as one stricken with the disease that turns the limbs to stone. The letter had been his son’s death foretold, for he no longer had the Shining One to give the kidnappers, and not enough time to find it in any event.

  Now, because of his transgression, because of his striking down the wretch in the road, he would lose his son and heir, and his throne as well. But what did that matter? He had already lost his truest friends: Durwin dead, Toli driven away and captured; even his queen had left him alone in his hour of greatest torment. But beyond all this, the pain that cut him deepest was the knowledge that the Most High had removed his hand from him and was now pouring out a heavy judgment upon him.

  The judgment was more than he could bear.

  There came a rap on his chamber door, and though Quentin did not move or attend the sound in any way, the door swung open. A tall, lanky figure entered the darkened room and came to stand beside the bed.

  “Sire,” said Theido, “all is in readiness.”

  The king did not answer.

  Theido stood looking sadly down on his friend for a moment, then said, “We are waiting for you to lead us.” He had been about to say that they were leaving now, but Quentin’s condition shocked him and he thought to try to rouse the king. For an instant he thought the ploy might work.

  Quentin turned his head on his pillow; his eyes focused on Theido’s face. “They are going to kill my son,” he said softly, “and I am to blame.”

  “Nay, Sire. I have come with news: the sword has been found. We go now to claim it.”

  “Zhaligkeer found?”

  “Lord Ameronis has stolen it from a tinker who found it in the road the
day of Prince Gerin’s abduction.”

  “Then he has won. He will never give it up.”

  “Not without a fight, no. But we mean to give him a fight the likes of which he has never seen. In the end he will give the Shining One back, and gladly. That is why you must ride with us.”

  “There is no time, Theido. No time. Already it is too late.”

  “It is not too late, Lord. But it will be if you delay.”

  “Go, then, and see what can be done.”

  Theido was about to agree, hesitated, and instead replied, “I will not give the order, Sire. That you must do. And you must ride at the head of your troops if we are to show Ameronis and his friends that we will brook no treason in this realm.”

  Again Quentin lay silent. Theido could not tell if his words were finding their mark or if his listener was so far given to his despair that nothing could reach him. The knight said a silent prayer to the Most High to move the king once more to action. “Defend your throne, my lord,” Theido said. “Come. Ride with us. Lead us.”

  Quentin sighed and passed a hand before his eyes. “No, I am no king. Leave me.”

  “Who will lead the troops if you will not?”

  “You will lead them.”

  “I will not.”

  “Ronsard, then. Anyone. I do not care.”

  Theido knew he was beaten then, turned away, and walked to the door. With his hand on the latch, he paused and said, “There are those who will give their lives for you and your throne. And many more will brave danger in service to you. Durwin did, and Toli—and others you know nothing of. Will you not lift a hand to save yourself ?” With that he closed the door.

  The king heard his footsteps diminishing in the corridor, and lay staring up into the darkness of his blackened room. He did not move.

  “Well?” Ronsard asked, already guessing the answer, for it was writ-ten in the gray, weary lines of his friend’s face.

  “He will not ride. I fear we have lost our king even before a single blow has been delivered.”