In the Hall of the Dragon King

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The two moved like shadows under the high portico of the temple and reached the far south side, that which overlooked the peaceful valley. They walked along the side of the temple, the moonlight falling in slanting rays, forming bands of light and shadow under the mighty eaves.

  “Listen,” said Toli. “Voices.”

  Quentin paused and cocked his head to one side. Voices from a little way ahead and below them carried on the still air. The sound was but a dull murmur, barely recognizable.

  They continued more cautiously, and the voices grew louder. Soon the travelers were crouching behind the immense columns of the temple, looking down upon a small circle of robed men bent over a shining object.

  “They are star searching,” remarked Quentin excitedly. “And look— that one in the center. I think I know that shape.”

  Quentin stepped boldly out of the shadow of the column and descended a few steps toward the group. He took a deep breath and said in a loud voice, “Priests of Ariel, will you receive two curious pilgrims?”

  The startled priests turned around quickly and beheld the figures of two young men descending toward them.

  The priest in the center of the huddle stepped forward and replied, “Pilgrims are always welcome to the shrine of Ariel, though most choose to make oblations in the light of day.”

  “We do not come to make oblations, or to inquire of the god Ariel, but of a priest instead.”

  “Priests are but the servants of their god; it is he who declares his will.”

  “Neither do we ask for the god’s interest in any affairs of ours,” said Quentin, approaching the priest. He could see the man’s face full in the moonlight now and knew that he addressed his old tutor. “We would speak to you man-to-man.”

  Quentin smiled as a faint glimmer of recognition lit the priest’s visage.

  “My heart tells me that I should know you, sir,” said the high priest slowly. The old eyes searched the young man’s features for a clue that might tell him who it was that addressed him. “But a name does not come to my lips. Have we met, then?”

  Quentin moved closer and placed his hands on the priest’s rounded shoulders. “Is the life of a priest so busy that he has no time for memories?”

  “Memories do not walk the temple yards by night, nor do they confront their bearers face-to-face.”

  “Then perhaps you will remember this.” Quentin dug into his pouch at his belt and produced a silver coin. He handed it to the priest.

  “This is a temple coin. Then you must be . . .”

  “You gave me that coin yourself, Biorkis, many years ago.”

  “Quentin? Is this Quentin the acolyte?” the old man sputtered.

  “Yes, I have returned to see you, my old friend—for so I always considered you.”

  “But how you have changed. You have grown up a fine man. You are well—as I can see. What brings you here tonight of all nights?”

  The other priests looked upon this reunion in wonder. They gathered close around to see who this returned stranger might be.

  “Can we walk a little aside?” asked Quentin. “I have something to ask you.”

  The two moved off, followed closely by Toli. The priests fell to murmuring their amazement and talking among themselves.

  “Your name has grown in the land,” said Biorkis as they walked to a rocky outcropping at the edge of the plateau.

  “Oh? You hear the tales up here, do you?”

  “We hear what we wish to hear. The peasants bring us no end of information. Some of it useful. But you are known as the prince who saved the Dragon King and defeated the monstrous sorcerer, Nimrood.”

  “It was not I who defeated Nimrood, but my friend Toli here.”

  Biorkis bowed to Toli and indicated that they should all seat themselves upon the rocks. “They also say that you are building a city in the Wilderlands which rises by magic from the stones of the earth.”

  “Again, that is not my doing. Dekra is my city only in that the gracious Curatak have allowed me to join in their work of restoring it to its former glory.”

  “This is what the people say, not I. As for myself, I surmise that the truth of the stories is to be found at the heart—like the stone of an apricot. But I know from this that my former acolyte is doing well and has risen in the esteem of his countrymen. But why should you seek me out now? The temple doors have not been closed these many years.”

  “We come to ask your opinion of something we have seen.” Quentin turned toward the east and pointed out across the quiet, moon-filled valley. “That star rising yonder. The Wolf Star. Has it not changed in some way of late? Do the priests detect a waxing of its power?”

  “So you have not forsaken your studies altogether. You still seek signs in the night sky.”

  “No, I must admit that I no longer study the stars in their courses. This event was pointed out to me by Toli, who remarked on it a few nights ago.”

  “Well, your Toli is right. In fact, we have been following this star with interest for many months. Tonight, as you have seen, we were once more examining the charts and seeking an answer to this wonder.”

  “Then you do not know what this sign portends?”

  “Does one ever?” Biorkis laughed. “Why do you look so shocked? A priest may have doubts—even a high priest. Ah, but we have our theories. Yes, many theories.”

  “That is what we have come to hear—your theories. What do you think it means?”

  4

  Durwin’s long brown robes swept along behind him as he rushed through the darkened corridors of Askelon Castle. Torches lit the way, sputtering in the gusty air as Durwin hurriedly passed. Ahead of him he could see a pair of doors that opened onto a patch of the night sky infused with the moon’s radiant beams.

  He stepped across the threshold and onto the balcony, then paused. There, a few paces from him, stood the slim figure of a woman; her dark hair tumbled down in shimmering ringlets and curls, and her face was averted, revealing the shapely curve of her slender neck. She was dressed in a loose-fitting gown of white held at her trim waist by a long blue sash that trailed nearly to the ground.

  “Your Majesty,” said Durwin, softly announcing himself. “I am here.”

  The woman turned and smiled.

  “Good Durwin, thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “Bria . . . I thought . . .”

  “You thought I was the queen, I know. But it was I who sent you the summons.”

  “You look so much like your mother standing there. With the moonlight in your hair, I thought you were Alinea.”

  “I will accept that as a compliment, Durwin. For me there is none higher. But you must be tired from your journey. I will not keep you, but I must speak to you a little. Do sit down, please.”

  She raised an arm and indicated a stone bench a short space away. Durwin took her arm and walked her along the balcony. “The night is beautiful, is it not?” he said.

  “Yes, it is—very.” The young woman spoke as if she had just become aware that it was night. The hermit could tell she had something on her mind that disturbed her.

  “I would not have troubled you, but I could think of no better help than to have you here. Theido is gone, and Ronsard with him.”

  “It is nothing, my lady. I am only too glad to know that this old hermit may still be of some use to those who dwell in Castle Askelon. I would have come sooner if I had known—your courier had quite a time finding me. I was in the forest, gathering herbs and tending to the illness of a peasant’s wife nearby.”

  “I knew you would come as soon as you could. I—” The princess broke off, unable to say what she felt in her heart.

  Durwin waited, and then said, “What is the matter, Bria? You may speak freely. I am your friend.”

  “Oh, Durwin!” Her hands trembled, and her head sank. She buried her face in her hands, and he thought she would cry. But she drew a deep breath and raised her face to the moon, clear-eyed. In that moment the young woman remind
ed him more than ever of another woman who bore an immense inner strength in times of great distress—Queen Alinea.

  “It is the king,” Bria said at last. “Oh, Durwin, I am very worried. He is not like himself. I think he is very ill, but he will see none of his doctors. He laughs at any suggestion I make regarding his health. My mother is worried too. But she can do nothing either. And there is something else.”

  Durwin waited patiently.

  “I do not know what it is—trouble, I think. Somewhere.” She turned and fixed the hermit with a smile that, though it graced her mouth, did not light her eyes as it normally would. “Quentin is coming.”

  “I have not forgotten. We are all going to celebrate Midsummer’s Day together.”

  “No—he is coming now. Eskevar sent for him. Even knowing that he would come for Midsummer, the king sent a special courier to bring him. That is how I know something is wrong.”

  “It could just be that he wishes to see him sooner—just a whim, that’s all.”

  Bria smiled again. “Thank you for that, but you know the Dragon King as well as I do. He does nothing on a whim. He has some reason for wanting him here, but what it is I cannot guess.”

  “Then we will wait and see. When will Quentin be here?”

  “If he left upon receiving the summons, I believe he will be here the day after tomorrow—the day after that at the latest.”

  “Good. That is not so long to wait—you will see. In the meantime I will try to discover what ails the king—in body or in spirit. Anything that may be done, I will do. Worry no more on it, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Durwin. You will not tell them that I sent for you?”

  “No, if you would rather not. I will just say that I grew weary of my books and medicines and desired the warmth of fellowship with my friends. I came early to the celebration, that is all.”

  “I feel better already knowing you are here.”

  “I am content. Though I imagine you would rather a certain young man stood here right now.”

  Bria smiled, and this time the light sparkled in her deep green eyes. “Oh, I’ll not deny it. But I am content to wait. It does cheer me somewhat to know that he comes sooner.”

  They talked some more and then rose; Bria bade Durwin a good night. Durwin escorted her to the door back into the castle and then turned to stroll along the balcony alone.

  He leaned his arms on the parapet and looked into the gardens below. In the moonlight he saw a solitary figure pacing among the beds of ruby roses, now indigo in the moonlight.

  He could not see who this person might be, but it was clear from the altered gait that the walker had fallen prey to a melancholy mood. He hunched forward and crossed his arms on his chest, stopped and started continually.

  Durwin looked on, and then the figure seemed to sense that he was being watched. He stopped and drew himself up and turned to look quickly into the balcony. Durwin drew away, but he had seen what he had already guessed. In the moment the face swung around, the moonlight illumined it, and Durwin knew that it was Eskevar, the Dragon King.

  Biorkis’s long, white-braided beard—the symbol of his office—glowed like a bright waterfall frozen in the moonlight. His wrinkled face, though still as round and plump as ever, looked itself like a smaller moon returning its reflected light to a larger parent. He gazed long into the sky and then said, “It may be something, or it may not. The heavens are filled with signs and wonders, and not all of them have to do with men.”

  “If you thought that, would you be standing out in the night, stargazing?” “No, likely not. But this is a most peculiar phenomenon—one does not see such a sign but once in a lifetime, perhaps not even then. To chart its progress would be of value aside from any meaning we might derive from its study.”

  “You evade my question, Biorkis. Why? Certainly the star is there for all to see and make of it what they will.”

  An expression of great weariness appeared on the face of the high priest as he turned to regard Quentin. “To the best of my knowledge, this star is an evil sign.”

  He had spoken simply and softly. But the words chilled Quentin to the bone; he shivered as if the night had suddenly grown colder.

  Quentin sought to lighten the remark. “Omens are always either good or bad, depending on the reader.”

  “Ah, but the greater the sign, the greater the consequence. And this is a great sign indeed. Surpassingly great.”

  Quentin raised his eyes to the eastern sky and regarded the star carefully. It was bright, yes, but there were other stars nearly as bright. He looked back at Biorkis with a questioning glance.

  “It has only begun to show itself,” said the high priest in answer to the look. “With every passing night it grows brighter, and so does the evil it portends.”

  “What is the nature of this evil? Can you tell?”

  “Evil is evil; you know that. What does it matter? The suffering will be great in any case. Flood, famine, pestilence, war—all are the same; all destroy in their turn.”

  “Well said. Your words are true, but men can do much to prepare against an evil time, if they know its source.”

  “Here is where our theories guide us. Some say that the star will grow and grow until it fills the sky, blotting out the sun and moon and stars. Then it will touch the earth and drive all living things insane before consuming them with fire.

  “Others say that each nation has a star and that this Wolf Star represents a fierce and brutal nation that rises against other nations and seeks to extinguish them with its power.

  “Still others regard this as the beginning of the end of mankind on earth. This star is the token of Nin, the destroyer god who brings his armies down to make war on the nations of the earth.”

  “And you, Biorkis, what do you say?”

  “I believe all are right. Some part of every guess will be shown in truth.”

  “When may the truth be evident?”

  “Who can say? Much that is foretold does not come to pass. Our best divinations are only the mumblings of blind men.” Biorkis turned his face away. “Nothing is certain,” he said softly. “Nothing is certain.”

  Quentin stood, went to the old priest, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Old man, come with us. You have lived long enough to see the gods for what they are. Let us show you a god worthy of your devotion. The Most High, Lord of All. In him you will find the peace you seek. You told me once that you sought a brighter light.”

  Biorkis looked at him wearily. “You remember that?”

  “Yes, and more. I remember you were my only friend in the temple. Come with us now and let us show you the light you have been seeking for so long.”

  Biorkis sighed, and it seemed as if all the earth groaned with a great exhaustion. “I am old—too old to change. Yes, these eyes have searched for the truth, but it has been denied them. I know the hollowness of serving these petty gods, but I am high priest. I cannot go with you now. Maybe once I could have turned away as Durwin did, as you have—but not now. It is too late for me.”

  Quentin looked sadly down on his old friend. “I am sorry.”

  Toli had risen and was moving away. Quentin turned and looked back at Biorkis, who still remained perched upon a rock, looking out into the peaceful valley. “It is not too late. You have only to turn aside and he will meet you. The decision is yours.”

  Quentin and Toli walked down the sinuous trail side by side without speaking. When they reached the meadow and the dimly glowing embers of their fire, Quentin said, “You knew the star to be an evil sign, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I considered it so.”

  “But you suggested we go to the temple. Why?”

  “I wanted to hear what other learned men might say. For all their spiritual uncertainties, the priests are still men of great knowledge.”

  “And did Biorkis confirm your worst fears?”

  “Biorkis spoke of what might be, not what will be. Only the God Most High can say what will be. His h
and is ever outstretched to those who serve him.”

  “Well, if Biorkis is right in his speculations, then we will have need of that strong hand before long, I fear.”

  5

  The earth moves through stages, epochs. The ancient legends tell of previous earth ages—four at least. We are living in the fifth age of man. Each age runs its allotted course and then gives birth to a new age.” Durwin spread his hands out on the table. Quentin, his chin in his hands, stared at the holy hermit in rapt attention. Around them in Durwin’s chambers, candles flickered and filled the room with a hazy yellow glow.

  “These ages may run a thousand years or ten thousand. Of course, there is no way to tell how long it will last, but the ancients believed that before the end of each age, the world is thrown into turmoil. Great migrations of people commence; great wars are fought as nation rises against nation; the heavens are filled with signs and wonders. Then comes the deluge: all the earth is flooded, or covered with ice. Then fire burns the earth and erases all the signs of the preceding age. It is a time of chaos and darkness, great cataclysms and death. But out of it comes a new age, both finer and higher than the one before.”

  As Durwin spoke, an eerie sense of dreadful fascination crept over Quentin. He shrugged it off and asked, “But must the earth be destroyed completely for a new age to be born?”

  Durwin mused on this question, but before he could open his mouth to speak, Toli answered. “Among my people there are many stories of the time before this one. It is said that the Jher came into being in the third age, when the world was still very young and men talked with the animals and lived in peace with one another.

  “These stories are very old; they have been with us longer than the art of our oldest storytellers. But it is said that the destruction of the world may be averted by some great deed—though what it is that may be done is not known.

  “Tigal, the Star Maker’s son, is said to have saved the world in the second age by hitching his horses to his father’s chariot and carrying off Morhesh, the Great Evil One, after wounding him with a spear made of a single shaft of light. He threw Morhesh into the Pit of the Night, and Morhesh’s star was extinguished so the earth did not burn.”