In the Hall of the Dragon King

by Stephen Lawhead

  Three forlorn sailors tumbled down the stairs, led by the sailor with the rope. They dashed straight for the nearest water keg without casting even a sideways glance at the prisoners huddled at the edge of the shaft of light thrown down by the door overhead. They lifted the keg in their brawny arms and struggled back up the steep stairs. They did not see the surprised and pleased expressions on the faces of the prisoners as they disappeared back up on the deck with the water ration for the crew.

  “We still don’t know whether Pyggin drinks from the same bowl as his men or not,” said Trenn when the footsteps had faded away above.

  “It is a risk we will take,” answered Theido. He turned to Durwin. “How long before your potion works?”

  “It varies, of course—how big the man, how much he drinks … But I made it slow to act, though strong. When all have gone to sleep tonight, none will rise before dawn—though tempest blow and waves beat down the masts.” He laughed, and his eyes twinkled in the darkened hold. “But lest we forget, we have a more immediate problem before us …”

  “Right,” agreed Trenn. “If we don’t find a way out of this stinking hull, it won’t matter low long those rogues sleep.”

  “What about one of the other hatches?” said Alinea, pointing into the darkness beyond to one of the two dim squares of light cut in the deck above.

  “An excellent idea, my lady.” The voice was Ronsard’s. Surprised, all turned to see the knight standing somewhat uncertainly behind them.

  “Ronsard!” exclaimed Theido. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “You should not be standing at all!” said Alinea, rushing over to take the wounded knight by the arm and lead him back to his crude pallet. He took one step toward them, and his face screwed up in pain; a hand shot to the side of his head.

  “Oh!” he said and then steadied himself. “I am not used to having my feet under me just yet.”

  “It will come,” assured Durwin.

  “Ah, but I feel better than I have in a very long time,” replied the knight, allowing himself to be sat down on a keg by the queen’s insistence. “Aside from this throbbing head of mine, I feel like a new man.”

  “I am glad to see it,” said Theido, beaming. “I had long ago given you up for dead—even seeing you here and looking like you did when we found you did not increase my hopes by much. But it now appears that you will live after all.”

  “It is all due to this wizard priest of yours,” Ronsard said, grinning at Durwin.

  “I did nothing—only allowed you to get the rest your body needed. You have slept these last three days.”

  “You said something about the forward hatch, sir,” reminded Trenn. “If you don’t mind my saying so,” he said to Theido, “I think that is our most pressing problem.”

  “Of course. What do you know about the forward hatch? Is there a way out from there?”

  “It may be we can make one,” said Ronsard, rising slowly from his keg. “I seem to remember watching them lower supplies through the forward hatch. It may be it is not secured the same way as the others.”

  “Let us see.” Theido led the group ahead, carefully picking his way among the carelessly stored cargo and supplies. In a moment they stood under the small hatch, gazing up through the latticework of its bars.

  “It is a scuttle hatch more than likely,” said Trenn pessimistically. “Too small for a man to get through.”

  “Though not too small for a woman, perhaps,” said Alinea brightly.

  “My lady, I forbid you to go running about on deck—what if one of those pirates does not fall asleep? No, it is too dangerous.” Trenn spoke in an authoritative tone. Theido and Durwin were inclined to agree with him but said nothing.

  “Well! Is bravery only for men, then?” Alinea’s eyes snapped defiantly. “I will match my hand against any of Pyggin’s herd if it comes to it, but I have stealth and surprise on my side at that. Not to mention Durwin’s art.”

  “It may be our best plan after all,” said Ronsard. “It would be dark.”

  “Yes, and she could move about more quietly than any of us, I will grant,” said Theido.

  “But we have yet to find the means to raise the hatch,” pointed out Durwin. “I suggest we start there while we still have a little light to see by.”

  “Here,” said Theido, “help me stack up a few of these casks and barrels. We will build our lady a staircase to freedom.”

  The prisoners worked all day and into the evening chiseling away at the lone hasp that fastened the hatch using bits of metal and a tool or two they found lying rusting in the bottom of the hold.

  As twilight came upon them, they heard sounds from on deck, which gave them to know that the ship had sighted its destination, the cruel land of Karsh.

  Captain Pyggin’s voice, hoarse from screaming orders at his lackluster men, could be heard above the commotion of scrambling feet and dragging tackle. “You lazy gulls! You’ll get no rum tonight, land or no land. Move! What’s got into you! Are ye all bewitched?”

  “Hmmm … the drug is beginning to take effect, I believe,” said Durwin.

  “Surely he will not try to land tonight.”

  “No, most likely they will wait at anchor some way out and not risk their boats against the rocks in the dark,” replied Ronsard from his bed.

  “Good,” said Trenn. “That will give us time to work. By dawn we should be ashore and this tub will be resting at the bottom of the sea.”

  “You would not sink it with all on board,” objected Alinea. She was perched upon a barrel top, grinding away at the hasp of the hatch above.

  “I would caution against such an act myself,” warned Durwin, “the needless taking of life.”

  “But this is war!”

  “Even in war we must conduct ourselves in a manner worthy of men.”

  “Besides,” added Theido, “we may need the ship later to make our escape.”

  “Now that I understand,” muttered Trenn.

  Just then the clink of metal falling to the deck above them sounded, and Alinea said, “It is free! The hatch is free!”

  “Good. Come down now, and we will wait for darkness to make our move,” said Theido. “We will not have long to wait, I think.”

  Prince Jaspin paced furiously about his apartment in Castle Erlott. The Council of Regents had been in session all day, and he had been barred from going anywhere near the meeting that was taking place in his own hall.

  “Leave them to their business,” cautioned Ontescue, the prince’s would-be chancellor. “They will remember their benefactor, have no fear. If you like, I will send to the cellar for some of your excellent ale. That should refresh their senses to the task—and give them a taste of the riches to come under your reign, my liege.”

  Though the selfish Jaspin did not fully appreciate pouring his best ale down the throats of the regents, he nevertheless saw the wisdom of such a move; it was a sure reminder to them of who pulled the strings.

  “Yes, a fine idea, Ontescue. See that it is carried out at once.” He continued his pacing.

  “How long have they been in there? How long will they remain?” Jaspin wailed. “What can be taking so long?”

  Ontescue returned shortly with a message in his hand. “The ale is being served. The regents are in recess now for a time. Sir Bran delivered this now to me in secret—it is for you.”

  The eager prince snatched the letter out of Ontescue’s hand and read it at once. “By the gods’ beards!” he shouted, losing all composure. “The council is deadlocked. That skulking bandit Holben has talked some of his spineless friends over to his side,” the prince fumed. “They are blocking my approval with their dissent.”

  “How can that be? They do not have the power to elevate another in your place. By right of succession the crown goes to you.”

  “True enough, but they appeal to a dusty old law, insisting upon proof of the king’s death beyond reasonable doubt. That proof I cannot give.”

&n
bsp; “Does such proof exist?”

  “You ought to know as well as I,” evaded Jaspin, covering his mistake quickly. “If the king is dead, then proof exists.”

  “I only meant that even if the king were still living—though unfit to continue his reign—some proof might be found that would satisfy the troublemakers.”

  “Hmmm …” The prince’s high brow wrinkled in thought. “There is something in what you say, my friend. How quickly you think.”

  “Might I suggest that a search be made that would turn up something or someone who would provide the necessary proof ?”

  “Yes, that will do,” said Jaspin, rubbing his hands together with glee. “Where do you propose we start looking?”

  A wry look came over Ontescue’s sharp features; his weasel eyes squinted merrily. He bent his head close to Jaspin’s ear and whispered.

  “By Azrael,” breathed Jaspin. “You are a clever fox. Let us make haste. There is no time to lose.”

  29

  Shhh! Make no sound!” warned Toli in a strained whisper. One hand covered Quentin’s mouth, and his other dripped with the water that he had splashed in his friend’s face to wake him.

  Quentin struggled from sleep, blinking the water out of his eyes, puzzled at first; then he caught a look at Toli’s wide eyes and tight lips. Concern mingled with fear lurked there.

  Toli removed his hand with another warning for silence.

  “What is wrong?” Quentin barely breathed. He rolled onto his side, pushed himself up on an elbow, and followed Toli’s gaze into the forest. There was not a sound to be heard.

  He peered into the night. All was darkness; the fire had burned out, and it appeared to Quentin several hours yet before the dawn. A thick, overcast sky shut out any light from moon or stars. The forest round about lay in deepest gloom.

  Just then, one of the horses whickered softly, and the other answered nervously. Quentin, straining both eyes and ears into the darkness, saw and heard nothing. He waited and was about to speak again when he saw a slight flicker through the trees some way off: a ghostly shape, gray-white against the black trunks of the trees. Low to the ground. Moving swiftly among the dense undergrowth. A thin, pale shape.

  It disappeared almost as soon as Quentin had seen it.

  “What is it?” Quentin asked, leaning close to Toli. He could see the tense expression on his friend’s face and felt his rapid, shallow breathing on his cheek.

  “Wolves.”

  The word pressed itself into Quentin’s mind slowly. At first it seemed to have no meaning; but then, like a slap in the face, he realized their danger. Wolves! They were being stalked by wolves!

  “How many?” he asked quietly, trying to make his voice sound calm and unconcerned, and failing.

  “I have only seen one,” said Toli in the barest whisper. “But where there is one, there are others.”

  Unconsciously Quentin reached for the only weapon he had, the gold-handled dagger of the king’s knight. His fingers tightened around the hilt as he drew it from his belt.

  He glanced at the smoldering remains of their campfire, wishing that it would spring magically to life again. Wolves are afraid of fire, he thought. He had heard that somewhere and wondered if it was true. As if reading his mind, Toli leaned over and placed his face close to the smoking coals and blew on them. His face glowed duskily in the feeble firelight, and for an instant a single flame licked out. But lacking fuel to feed it, the flame winked out again.

  The horses, close behind them but invisible in the darkness, jingled their bridles as they tossed their heads to free themselves. “We must loose the horses,” said Toli, “so they may fight.”

  “Will it come to that?” Quentin asked. He had no experience in these things. He felt out of place and strangely indignant about it, an emotion that puzzled him.

  Just then Quentin caught another flickering glimpse of a gray shape floating among the trees to the right of them. This time the animal was much closer.

  “They are closing in,” said Toli. Quentin realized he had been holding his breath.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Quentin, shocked because he did not have the slightest idea himself what to do.

  In answer to his question, Toli handed him a stout branch, one they had gathered for the fire. It was hefty enough to use as a club. With the club in one hand and the knife in the other, Quentin felt only slightly more confident. “Keep low,” Toli warned. “Protect your throat.”

  Toli stood slowly, and from a long distance behind them they heard a mournful call of a wolf. Quentin’s stomach tightened as if someone were squeezing it. The eerie, hollow cry was echoed by another on the right, not nearly so far away. Toli placed a hand on Quentin’s arm, clenching him in a steel grip, drawing him to his feet.

  Suddenly they heard a low, menacing growl from the left, very close. Quentin turned toward the sound and saw a gaunt white death’s head floating right at him out of the forest.

  “To the horses!” screamed Toli, spinning on his heel and diving forward.

  Quentin turned in the same instant and flew to Balder’s side. He found the animal’s head and slashed at the reins that tied him to the branch where he had been tethered for the night.

  The mighty warhorse jerked free and reared upon its hind legs as it spun round to face its ghost attacker. Quentin dodged out of the way as a heavy, iron-shod hoof whistled through the air where his head had been an instant before.

  Balder neighed wildly, flailing the air with his forelegs. The wolf, plunging at them from the forest, swerved and bounded aside to avoid Balder’s flying hooves.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Quentin saw another wolf dashing in from the side. He leaped forward and swung the makeshift club high over his head, yelling at the top of his lungs as he did so. The yell surprised him as much as the scared wolf, who hung back in its attack just long enough for Quentin to land a blow square on its long snout. The wolf ’s jaws snapped shut with a teeth-cracking crunch as the club fell. The animal let out a pleading yelp and backed away.

  Another yelp sounded behind him, and Quentin started toward Toli to lend a hand. He had run not two steps when his foot caught on a root, and he went down.

  As he fell, Quentin sensed a motion behind him, and before he hit the ground with a thud, he felt a weight upon his back. Without thinking, he threw an arm over his head as the wolf ’s long teeth raked at his exposed neck. He felt the dagger in his hand and tried to wrench free his other arm pinioned beneath him.

  He felt the wolf ’s teeth caught in the sleeve of his tunic, tearing at his clothing. He squirmed under the weight of the animal, trying to bring the knife up and into the wolf ’s belly.

  The knife flashed up, suddenly free, and Quentin looked beneath his arm to see the body of the wolf flying sideways and folding in midair as if it had no backbone. Then he saw Balder’s head tossed high above him as he prepared to deliver another similar blow to any predator daring to come within range of his lightning hooves.

  “Kenta!” Toli cried. Quentin looked around to see his friend holding four wolves at bay with his whirling branch. Three others were working at the other horse, closing in for a lunge at the frightened animal’s throat.

  Jumping to his feet, Quentin found his club in his hand and raced toward his friend. “God Most High, help us now!” he screamed as he ran.

  One wolf broke off its attack of the horse to meet Quentin in full flight. Quentin lunged with the club, but the wily creature dodged and caught the club in its mouth. The wolf jerked backward with such force it nearly pulled Quentin’s arm from its socket as he let go of the club. He brought the knife up before him as the wolf gathered itself for another lunge.

  Toli screamed something unintelligible, and Quentin saw a wolf standing on its hind legs with its paws on Toli’s back, jaws snapping wildly.

  There was a growl before him, and Quentin looked down into the wolf ’s evil yellow eyes. The wolf snarled savagely and bared its cruel fangs, coilin
g itself, snakelike, for a strike.

  Then Quentin heard a squeal from the bushes beside him. Another wolf ? It did not sound like a wolf. He heard more squeals and the sound of something big crashing recklessly through the underbrush.

  The wolf heard it and turned its baleful eyes from Quentin to look at the brush behind it.

  All at once the bushes erupted in high-pitched squeals and the crashing sound of small hooves tearing among the branches. Dark shapes like boulders came dashing through the clearing from the far side of the forest.

  The dark forms raced headlong into the wolves, squealing and snorting as they ran. The wolves, snarling in terror, turned to face this new foe.

  One of the dark creatures brushed by Quentin, nearly knocking him off his feet. It was then that Quentin realized the squealing shapes were those of wild pigs—boars and sows.

  The wild pigs, led by a huge boar with long, curving tusks, bolted with a fury into the thick of the wolves. Toli leaped aside as they came crashing into the clearing to engage the wolves.

  Fur flew. The tear of flesh and meaty crunch of living bone being splintered could be heard amid the yelp of the terrorized wolves.

  The large white wolf, the leader, which had begun the attack, barked once and made a dash for the forest. Those of his marauding band that could still run turned tail and followed him as the pigs snuffled after them.

  In moments they were gone, and Quentin stood fighting for his breath in the center of the clearing. All that could be heard was the receding crash of the wild pigs in thundering pursuit of the fleeing wolves.

  Then Toli was beside him, peering into his face in quiet wonder. Toli’s face was wet from sweat and blood from a small cut over his eye. “Are you all right, Kenta?” he asked, touching Quentin on the arm with his fingertips.