In the Hall of the Dragon King

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  But he also felt that aside from his personal reluctance, which sat like a lintel stone upon his back, if what Biorkis and Durwin said was true, he had a responsibility to follow wherever the trail would lead. If he did have some part to play in saving the realm, he had to accept it and do whatever was required, aside from how he felt about it.

  It was this other, more rational Quentin who answered.

  “Very well. Let us see what you two rumormongers have schemed up for us. There seems to be no denying you.”

  “You are beginning to think beyond yourself, eh, Quentin? That is good. Yes, very good.” Biorkis pulled on his long, white, braided beard. “Now, here is what I have found.”

  The hours that followed had seemed but the flicker of a candle flame. A wink, a nod, and they were gone. From the moment his old teacher had begun to speak, Quentin was gripped in the spell of enchantment, transfixed by the unutterable mystery of the story of strange events, long forgotten, having passed from the minds and hearts of men long ages past. It was remembered only by a few learned men, and now it was revived in his presence. He listened intently, seizing every word as a thirsty man opening his parched throat to the sky to drink in the drops of rain.

  They told of the sword, a sword unlike any other and possessed of a mysterious holy power; of secret mines beneath hidden mountains in half-remembered lands; and of the forging of the mighty weapon upon an anvil of gold. Biorkis and Durwin, their round faces flushed with the excitement of their tale, spoke of the ache of the people who for generation upon generation had waited, believing that they would see the coming of the sword and he who would carry it. They told of songs sung and prayers prayed in all the dark, hopeless times for the hand worthy to possess the sword to arise and deal deliverance at its point.

  Zhaligkeer—that was the name the ancients had given the sword. The Shining One.

  Quentin rolled the name on his tongue, knowing the name linked him to those who had lived and died waiting to see the sword. He wondered how many men had breathed that name in their hour of need; he wondered how many had despaired of ever seeing it and had given up hope and turned away.

  When at last the story was told, Quentin rose to stretch and pace the room in quick, restless strides. “Are you suggesting that we just go and find this sword? That it lies hidden in some cave in the high Fiskills?”

  Biorkis shook his head wearily. “Not find it; the sword does not exist. You must make it. Zhaligkeer must be forged of the hand that will wield it.”

  Quentin sighed hopelessly. “I do not understand. Forgive me, what was all that about anvils of gold and secret mines and all? I thought that it was all part of the legend.”

  “Oh, it is, it is,” said Durwin. “But it is our belief that the legends indicate the manner in which the sword must be made, not how it was made. I do not think that anyone ever actually made the sword.”

  “Well, why not? It does not seem at all clear why they would hesitate. What was to stop them from trying?”

  Durwin cocked his head to one side and smiled smugly. “Nothing and . . . everything. Undoubtedly, many tried. They applied the prophecy to themselves and their own times. But two things are needed for the sword to become Zhaligkeer, the Shining One: the one is from the secret mines, but the other is the hand of him whom the prophecy names. Even if they found the ore, which perhaps some of them by some means accomplished, they still lacked the thing that would make the sword Zhaligkeer: the hand of the chosen one. You see, it is not the blade alone but the hand of the Most High which endows the sword with its power.”

  “If, as you say, men have long sought the Shining One, why have I not heard tell of it before now?”

  “There is nothing unusual there, sir!” laughed Biorkis. “It is ever thus. In good days men think not of the hand that helps them. But when evil days come upon them, they cry out for the deliverer. In Mensandor, the years have brought prosperity and peace to the people as often as not. Men have forgotten much of the old times, when their fathers struggled in the land. They have forgotten the sword; but for a few the prophecy would have been lost completely.”

  Quentin brushed his good hand through his hair. His eyes burned in his head. He was tired. The night was old, and he needed sleep.

  “I know nothing of making swords. Neither do I know the way to the secret mines in the high wastelands of the Fiskills. And even if I already possessed such a sword, I do not know what I should do with it; I do not even have the arm to raise it.”

  Durwin crossed the room and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “You are tired; you should take your rest like Toli there.” Durwin nodded toward the Jher, who had curled himself up in an empty seat and was now sleeping soundly. “Go to bed now. We have talked enough for one night. We will talk again tomorrow. Believe me, there is much more to discuss before we set off.”

  Quentin believed him. There were a thousand questions flapping around in his head, like blackbirds over a new-plowed field. But he was exhausted and could think of nothing but sleep.

  “Does anyone else know about all this . . . this. . . .” Words failed him; he could think no more.

  “No, not as yet—Ronsard and Theido know we will be busy while they are away. To Eskevar I have mentioned my suspicions regarding the events before us, but he knows nothing of the sword. No one beyond we four knows anything about what we have talked of this night.

  “Good night, Quentin. Go and find your bed. We will talk again in the morning.”

  As if on signal, Toli rose and slipped to the door to lead Quentin away. In a few moments Quentin felt himself sink deeply into bed, collapsing full-length upon it without even removing his clothes. To Quentin it seemed as if he had plunged into a warm, silent sea. He was asleep as the waves closed over him.

  The next day was a blur of maps and scrolls—so dusty and brittle with age, one scarcely dared breathe on them—and dizzying conversation. Toli, sensing that the time for riding was drawing swiftly nearer, had begun selecting animals and provisions for the journey. Several times Quentin saw Durwin and Toli head-to-head in a corner as Toli checked some detail of his plan with Durwin.

  Quentin wondered why he was not consulted about the preparations, but at the same time he was glad to not have to think about them. His mind had more than enough with which to occupy itself; his head fairly throbbed with the things he was taking in. Also, he missed Bria. He had not seen her but for fleeting moments over hurried meals.

  He could tell that she knew he was going away soon. Her silent gazes, her bittersweet smiles and furtive gestures told him she knew. But she did not mention it to him; she did not cling. It was a mark of her high character that she, as much as was humanly possible, put her own feelings aside and tried to make his last days at the castle easier. And Quentin loved her for it.

  When he finally mustered enough courage to face breaking the awful announcement of their departure, Bria placed her fingers to his lips, saying, “Do not say it. I know you must leave me now. I knew that from the moment I saw you emerge from the council chamber. You have much to do, great deeds to perform, and I will not bind your heart with promises.

  “Go, my love. And when you return, you will find me waiting at the gate. The women of my kindred are accustomed to waiting. Do not worry after me, my darling. I will pass the time the better knowing your mind is settled.”

  Despite his broken arm, Quentin hugged her to him for a long time, wondering whether he would ever see her again.

  In the haste which overtook them, there was little time for brooding or sadness—that would come later; there was simply too much to be done. In two days they accomplished what would normally have taken a week.

  Long hours were spent in consultation with the king. Their plan had won his approval outright, although not without certain misgivings. With the hills and countryside become harborage for the Ningaal—no one knew precisely where they were—Eskevar was loath to allow the party to leave without an armed escort.

  They at las
t convinced him that such would only make their errand more difficult. It would be better to pass unheralded through the world and unencumbered by the chores of moving many men and horses overland in secret.

  Quentin, Toli, and Durwin went. Biorkis, too old to withstand the rigors of such a journey, stayed behind in Askelon to give aid and counsel where he could. If battle drew near, he would be needed to attend as physician to any wounded. Also in Durwin’s mind, though he did not voice it aloud to anyone, was his apprehension that Eskevar, not wholly recovered from his mysterious malady, would require competent care in his absence. Were it not for that, Durwin would have taken his leave of the castle with a lighter heart.

  The dark, cool pathways of Pelgrin, overhung with leafy boughs that blotted out all but the most determined of the sun’s rays, soothed Quentin’s mind as he rode along. His sorrow gradually left him, and he became filled with the excitement of the quest. Though it was still hard for him to accept the fact that he seemed to have a central part in it— he felt the same old Quentin, after all—he allowed himself to linger long in a kind of rapture over the tale of the mighty Zhaligkeer, the Sword of Holy Fire.

  31

  Where will we find the master armorer to help in forging the sword? I do not recall having mentioned that. Surely, you do not contemplate that we will undertake that task without guidance?” Quentin rested with his back against a mossy log in a green clearing deep in Pelgrin’s wooded heart. Toli was busily poking among the bundles of the pack ponies to assemble a bite for them to eat. They had been riding since sunrise, and this was the first time they had stopped.

  “I have an idea where we may find someone suited to the task,” said Durwin. His hands were clasped behind his head, and his eyes were gazing skyward. “Does the name Inchkeith mean anything to you?”

  “Inchkeith? Why, he is said to be the most skilled armorer who ever lived. He fashioned the armor for the first Dragon King, and it was he who designed Eskevar’s battle dress, which he wore in the war against Goliah. Everyone knows that name! But is he still alive?”

  “Oh, very much alive, though you make him older than he really is. It was his father, Inchkeith the Red, who made the armor for the Dragon King, and for several kings before that. He is many long years in his grave.

  “But his son has continued the work begun by his father, and has increased the renown of the name. It is no wonder legends abound whenever men strap on greaves and gorget. The armor of Inchkeith is known as the finest made by human hands.”

  Durwin smiled and winked at Quentin’s look of unalloyed amazement. “Well, what do you say? Will he do to make us a sword?”

  “A slingshot fashioned by master Inchkeith would do as well. Of course he will do!”

  They ate their meal and talked of the trail. Toli said little, and Quentin guessed his friend was concentrating upon reviving his dormant trailcraft—it had been a long time since the wily Jher had had an opportunity to practice the storied skills of his people. The little journeys back and forth from Askelon hardly counted, for there was a good road. But where they were going they would have need of his animal-like cunning, for there were no roads, no pathways, nor even trails. Man had not set foot in those high places in a thousand years.

  Quentin was thinking on these things, realizing that just as he did not know how they would fashion the sword, he did not know exactly where they were going.

  “These mines, Durwin—where are they? How will we find them?”

  “I have brought along maps, such as they are, taken from the old scrolls. This is as good a time as any to show you. Here.” The hermit moved to one of the ponies and withdrew a long roll of leather.

  “This is the way we shall go,” he said, unrolling the map. “It is very old, this map. And the land is much changed: rivers have slipped from their courses, and hills have worn away; forests have vanished, and cities have come and gone. But it shall serve to guide us nonetheless.”

  Quentin fingered the skin on which the map was painted. “This does not appear as old as you say, Durwin. It looks as if it were made only yesterday.” “It was!” laughed Durwin. “We did not dare bring the original, or originals, I should say, for this map is made from scraps Biorkis and I have found over the years. The very age of the scraps made bringing them out of the question. They would have blown away on the first breath of breeze.

  “No, this map was made by the combined resources of Biorkis and myself, and it is a better map for it. He had information which I did not. It is a lucky thing he came when he did. If he does nothing else, he has already helped greatly.”

  “Durwin,” Quentin chuckled, “do you not know that where the servants of the Most High are concerned, there is no such thing as luck and coincidence?”

  The hermit laughed and raised his hands before him. “So it is! Give me quarter! I submit. The pupil has instructed the master.”

  “I am not always so dull,” Quentin said, looking again at the map, which seemed little more than a bare sketch. “Be it as you say, there is still precious little here to follow. I do not even see any mines indicated on it.”

  “Very rough. But it is all we have—besides the riddle.”

  “Riddle?” Toli spoke up. He stood over them, looking down at the map.

  “Did I not tell you of the riddle? Oh? Well, I will tell you now. There was so much to do and so little time, I do not wonder that you feel ill equipped to begin this journey. I thought I had told you.

  “The riddle goes like this:

  ‘Over tooth and under claw wend your way with care.

  Where mountains sleep, sharp vigil keep; you shall see the way most clear.

  When you hear laughter among the clouds and see a curtain made of glass

  Take no care for hand nor hair, or you shall surely never pass.

  Part the curtain, divide the thunder, and seek the narrow way;

  Give day for night and withhold the light

  And you have won the day.’

  “It sounds simple enough,” said Quentin. “Where did you find it?”

  “That we shall see. I am certain that it will seem more than difficult enough when the time comes to unravel its meaning. As to where I found it, you should know that already.”

  “How so?”

  “At Dekra. That is where I discovered most of what little I know of this affair. Yeseph himself translated it for me.”

  “He never told me about it.”

  “Why should he? It was years ago, and I was a pestering young man digging through his library like a mole. I chanced upon the riddle in a book which made mention of the mines of the Ariga.”

  “Those are the mines we seek?”

  Durwin nodded. “You see, the blade is to be made of lanthanil.”

  “The stone which glows,” said Toli. “My people have heard of it. It is said that of old the Ariga gave gifts of glowing stones to the Jher for their friendship in the time of the white death. Whoever touched the stone was healed and made whole. They were called Khoen Navish—the Healing Stones.”

  “Yes, that, at least, I have heard of, too. But I assumed that like much of the lore of the Ariga, the lanthanil had passed from this earth.”

  “I think not, though we shall see,” Durwin said. “The Most High will show us aright. We must remember that it is he who guides us to his own purpose. We need not fret ourselves overmuch about the things we cannot foresee. The things we see too well will require our utmost attention, I have no doubt.”

  Theido and Ronsard, with a force of three hundred mounted knights behind them, rode southward as far as their coursers could take them. They wanted to reach their rendezvous with Lord Wertwin on the third day and then undertake to engage the enemy before he had a chance to travel very much farther and strengthen himself on the spoils of Mensandor.

  At midday on the third day, they reached the prearranged place of meeting. The knights dismounted and walked the wide greensward while they waited for Wertwin’s army to arrive. Squires in attenda
nce watered the horses and saw to their masters’ armor; some polished breastplates and repainted devices erased by use, others set up their sharpening stones to hone blades long unused, and the smiths at their wagons pounded out dents in helm and brassard upon their anvils.

  The day was filled with the clatter of an army looking to its armament. Theido and Ronsard had withdrawn under a shady branch to await their comrade. Ronsard dozed, and Theido paced while the afternoon came on in full.

  “He has not come yet?” asked a sleepy Ronsard as he rose to his feet, stretching.

  “No, and I am beginning to wonder if we should send a scout ahead to see what may have become of him. He should have been here waiting for us. Instead it is we who wait for him, and he shows not.”

  “I will send Tarkio ahead a little and see if we can discover what has become of our tardy friend. Perhaps it is nothing. You know it is no small task to mobilize a force of knights in a single day. He may have made a late start.”

  “Let us hope that is what has happened,” said Theido. He did not mention the other explanation that came to his mind. Both of them knew what it was, and neither wanted to hear or believe it.

  Ronsard sent a squire to fetch the knight, and they waited for the courier to ready himself. “Be easy, Theido. You are wearing a path in the grass. See here, your pacing has bared the earth.”

  “I like this less and less, Ronsard. I do. Something has happened. I feel it here.” He smacked his fist against his stomach.

  Ronsard stared at his dark friend as Theido continued. “Your instincts in the ways of battle are ever keen. You must feel it, too.” Theido paused and stared, his gaze almost fierce with impatience. “Well?”

  Before Ronsard could answer, they heard a battle horn sound in the wood; it seemed to surround them as it blasted a note of alarm. They turned and looked out across the greensward and saw a knight on a charger come crashing out of the wood. They watched as one of their own apprehended the man; there was a wild waving of arms, and then the knight looked toward them and spurred his mount forward. In an instant he was pounding toward the spot where Theido and Ronsard waited.