The Sword and the Flame

by Stephen Lawhead

  The air was calm and warm; light breezes waited idly, lifting the leaves and blades of grass around him. Nearby a skylark warbled a song to the sun.

  But to Quentin it was as if the heavens had dimmed for an instant, as if a cloud had passed before the sun, blotting out its face for a brief moment. Then all was as before, except the king’s senses pricked and tingled to an unknown danger.

  At once he turned Blazer back into the forest, sending his thoughts ahead to sift the wind for direction. He struck along a southerly path, sensing that the cry he imagined had come from that direction. The boles of trees, bands of light and shadow, blurred as Quentin flew along this dim corridor of Pelgrin. His heart thumped in his chest, and he urged Blazer onward ever faster, choosing his course on instinct alone.

  Upon reaching a small clearing, he halted. A bundle lay ahead on the trail. Was that a body?

  Quentin slid from the saddle and hurried forward. He knelt down and rolled the body into his arms.

  “Durwin!”

  The hermit’s face had gone as gray as ashes. His eyelids flickered, and he focused cloudy eyes on his friend. “Ah, Quentin . . .”

  “What has happened? Who has done this to you?”

  “The prince . . . your son. They have taken him . . .”

  “Who? Here, let me help you—”

  “No, no. Leave me. Find your son. They went through there.” He nodded his head weakly.

  “How many?”

  “Three or four. I did not see them clearly. Maybe more. Toli—ah!” Pain twisted his features; his limbs convulsed and then relaxed.

  “Easy,” soothed Quentin. “We will find them. Rest now.” He struggled to remain calm.

  “Yes, I will rest.” The hermit’s voice was thin, but his eyes looked deeply into Quentin’s. “We have traveled far together, eh?” He coughed, and his eyes squeezed shut.

  “Yes, and we have many roads yet to ride.” Quentin held him tightly.

  “You will ride them alone, I think. But I am content—I am not afraid to die.”

  “You are not dying!” Quentin shouted desperately. Tears rose in his throat. “You will survive. Help is coming.”

  “I fear it will come too late.” He gazed at Quentin again. “Do not blame Toli. It is not his fault.”

  “I do not understand,” Quentin said.

  “Be strong, Quentin. Remember, you are the king. You must lead your kingdom. This will be your sorest test, your darkest day.”

  “No!” Quentin could see his friend was slipping away. “You will never die!”

  “So it is! The spirit never dies . . . never. We will meet again, fair friend. I will wait for you. No pain, no fear . . .”

  “Do not leave me!” cried Quentin.

  A slight tremor passed through the hermit’s body, and then he lay still. His breath whispered away in a sigh. Durwin was dead.

  10

  Fools! Imbeciles!” Nimrood raged. “What have you done?” He whirled around the circle, thrusting a crooked finger into the grim faces before him. “You will pay for this with your lives.”

  “We only did as you told us,” said the leader of the temple guards. “How were we to know he would leave the prince? They were together.”

  “Silence! Let me think!” He stopped to glare down at Prince Gerin, who stared back defiantly. “I send you out to strike down a man, and you bring me a boy.”

  “He’s the prince, I say!” maintained the man.

  “Is this true?” asked Nimrood. His eyes bored into the lad. “What is your name?”

  “Gerin,” he replied steadily. “Who are you?”

  “Impudent cub!” The old man reached out and cuffed the boy, leaving a red welt on his cheek.

  “My father will deal with you,” said the prince. “Let me go.”

  “No,” said Nimrood slowly as an idea took shape in his mind. “Here is an opportunity I can turn to advantage.” He smiled cannily. “Oh, yes indeed.” He chuckled to himself and then snapped, “Bring him!”

  They started off on foot, threading deeper into the forest. Two big men shoved the prince forward. When he fell on hands and knees, they hauled him up by his collar and shoved him forward again. Another guard seized Tarky’s reins and led the animal away.

  “You two!” Nimrood said, pointing to the two behind. “Stay well to the rear of us. If anyone comes after, put them off the trail. Do you hear?”

  The two men looked worriedly at each other, but nodded and dropped behind. Soon Nimrood, the prince, and the others were lost in the dense growth of forest. The two guards watched their comrades dis-appear. One muttered to the other, “I do not like this fool business. Not a whit, by Ariel! We are guards of the temple, but he has made us highwaymen and kidnappers!”

  “I did not hear your voice oppose him,” the other replied nastily. “We are in it now and have no choice but to see it through.”

  “Aye, but where is it going to lead in the end? That is what I want to know. There is death here—mark my words. Death. This will be the undoing of the temple.”

  “Silence! There is enough to worry about as it is. If we are to get out of this with our skins, we need to keep sharp and stop mewling like sick cats.”

  “He has taken the prince! By Ariel—”

  “Shut up! We are in this as deep as he. No sense in yammering on about it. Come on, let’s be about our business.”

  The two walked off in the direction the others had gone, listening nervously to the forest sounds, hoping against hope that no one would come after them.

  Toli entered the trail and proceeded to the clearing. Before he even saw the huddled forms upon the ground, he knew something was very wrong. His heart jerked within him, quickening to the terrible apprehension that overpowered him.

  He threw himself down from his horse and ran toward the place where Quentin held the body of Durwin in his arms.

  “My lord! Oh!” He stopped short and knelt, knowing now what had happened.

  Quentin raised his head slowly. His face glistened with tears. “Durwin is dead,” he said softly. “Dead. Toli, I . . .” His voice trailed off, and he clutched the body to him again, his shoulders shaking with the sobs that racked him.

  Toli felt as if his heart had been cut in two. He sat back on his heels and raised his face to the sky, showing pale blue overhead through the trees. In a moment the quiet green glade hummed with a gentle sound as Toli raised the ancient Jher song for the dead.

  Whinoek brea faro lleani,

  Fallei sensi nessina wea.

  The words were simple, and Quentin understood them. Toli sang, “Father of Life, receive our brother. Grant him peace in your great home.”

  To the Jher people, who had no permanent home, roaming the northern forests as they did, Whinoek’s great home meant eternal joy and safety and comfort—and peace, which to the gentle Jher was the highest fulfillment.

  After a time the song stopped, fading softly away on the air. Quentin lowered the body of the hermit carefully to the ground and, with Toli, arranged the limbs. He brushed a strand of hair away from the broad face of the man he had loved, and kissed the high forehead gently. Then he rose slowly.

  “They will curse the day of their birth,” he murmured. “I am going after them.”

  “No, let me, I—”

  “I am going. Ride to the castle. Bring a bier for him, and take him back. I will join you there when I have found my son.”

  “But—,” objected Toli. He stood and approached the king.

  “That is all,” Quentin cut him off coldly. “You will do as I say. When you have finished, bring a company of knights and come after me if I have not yet returned.”

  “What are you going to do, Sire?” Toli was frightened by the look in Quentin’s eyes.

  “I am going to bring back the prince.” With that, he turned away and strode to where Blazer waited patiently. Snatching up the reins, he swung himself into the saddle, then glanced back once more at the body of the hermit on the groun
d. “Good-bye, old friend,” he said simply, raising a hand slowly in final salute. Then he was gone.

  “What can be taking them so long?” wondered Bria aloud. “They should have returned long ago.”

  Esme, sitting next to the queen in the royal pavilion, craned her neck and gazed toward the forest. “I do not see anyone coming. But you know men and their hunting. I would not wonder but that they became caught up in the chase and have forgotten everything else.”

  “You are right. I am certain that is what has happened.” She spoke the words, but in her heart she was far from convinced. Bria turned her eyes once more to the costumed mummers performing before her. The bright disguises glittered in the sun, and the two young princesses giggled at the pantomime, clapping their hands with glee. Bria tried to maintain interest in the performance, but once and again her eyes stole back across the plain toward the forest, watching for the return of Quentin, Durwin, and the others. But she saw no sign of anyone, so at last forced herself to concentrate on the play.

  “Look!” Esme whispered urgently. “A rider!”

  The queen raised her eyes and looked where Esme was pointing. She could just make out the form of one rider approaching from across the plain.

  “Oh! Only one!” An arrow of dread pierced her heart. “Something has happened!”

  “We cannot be certain,” Esme said lightly. “Let us wait until we have heard what he has to say. Perhaps it is only a messenger on his way to tell us the king will be late—which we already know.” She laughed, but there was no happiness in her voice.

  “Who is it? Can you see?” Bria stood.

  “No, not yet.”

  They waited. Tension drew taut as a bowstring.

  Queen Bria crumpled the front of her gown in her hands as the rider drew closer.

  “It is Toli!” cried Esme.

  “Yes, I can see him now!” Bria stepped down from her chair. “Come. I cannot abide here another moment. Stay here with Chloe,” she told her daughters. “I will return in a moment.”

  “I will look after them, my lady,” answered Chloe.

  The two women dashed onto the field, scattering the actors, who parted to let them pass and then continued once more with their performance.

  They met Toli at the edge of the festivities. “What is it?” asked the queen, her intuition already answering the worst.

  Toli turned grave eyes on her. He did not look at Esme. Bria felt a thin blade of terror slide under her ribs. “The king—,” she whispered. “Not the king.”

  Toli took the queen’s hand. “My lady, the king is well,” he said softly, searching her eyes, hoping to find further words there.

  “Yes, continue,” said Bria. She stared steadily back.

  “Durwin is dead.”

  “How?” Bria gasped.

  “They were set upon by kidnappers in the forest. He died protecting the prince.”

  “And the prince? He is safe?” said Esme.

  “Gone. The prince has been taken—”

  “No!” murmured Bria. The clattering, noisy din around them faded, and she had the sensation of the world blurring before her as she staggered beneath the force of a killing blow.

  “Where is the king?” asked Esme, fighting to keep her voice under control.

  “He was with Durwin when I found him. He has gone after the prince.” He glanced briefly at Esme, as if noticing her for the first time. “I am to fetch a bier and bring Durwin to the castle, then return with a complement of knights to follow the king.”

  “We will see to the bier,” said Esme. “You must go at once and assemble the knights as the king has ordered. Do not delay!”

  Toli hesitated. Those had not been the king’s instructions.

  Bria came to herself. “Yes, I agree. You must not waste a moment. Go now.” Bria placed a hand on his arm. “Please hurry.”

  Toli still hesitated. “I should have been there,” he said. “I should have never left them alone.”

  “No,” said Esme. “There is no time. What is done is done.”

  “Go. He will need you with him,” Bria added.

  “Very well. You will find Durwin in a glade along the southern trail. I will send someone to lead you.” Toli bowed his head, and then he was back in the saddle, racing once more for the forest, where he would find the knights he sought, for most were taking part in the hunt.

  Bria turned to her friend. She tried to speak, but no words would come.

  Esme put an arm around her shoulders. “Come. There is much to do. We have work to occupy us while we wait. And we must pray the wait is not long.”

  “Yes, we must pray for Quentin and Gerin. They will need our prayers this day.”

  11

  Toli reached Pelgrin and struck out along the foremost trail leading into the heart of the forest. The hunt had moved deeply into the wood and scattered widely. He would have to keep a sharp eye for signs along the trail, and listen for any sounds of nearby hunters. He came to a place where a small stream trickled among the great trunks of ancient oaks. Along the low banks he saw the imprints of horses’ hooves where several had stopped to drink before pressing on. Without a second thought he leaped across the stream and into the forest after them.

  Soon he was rewarded with the blast from a horn. The long, ringing note was sounded from far off, but the tone lingered in the air and gave Toli all the direction he needed. Alert to the minute signs of the hunters’ passing, Toli followed the party unerringly through the thick, woody tangle. Riv charged through the undergrowth, head down and ears laid back. The horse, so responsive to his master’s subtlest commands, passed like a glimmering shade between trees and outstretched branches.

  And then, a little way ahead, Toli heard voices. He slapped Riv on the rump once more, and they jumped a fallen log, landing square in the center of a well-used path.

  “Ho there!” one of the men cried when he saw Toli. “Toli! Look here!” The others with him looked up from their work. They were a party of four—Lords Galen and Bossit, Sir Hedric and Sir Dareth—and they were gutting a boar they had just killed. Toli thanked the Most High that these able and brave men were the first he met in his search for assistance.

  “Lord Galen—good sirs . . . ,” Toli greeted them. He reined Riv to a halt, and the horse snorted loudly. The others saw the steed’s white-lathered flanks and shoulders and knew Toli had come on an errand of some urgency. “My lord, what is it?” asked Lord Bossit. A look of concern clouded his features.

  “The king’s minister has been struck down, and the prince kid-napped,” said Toli, his breath coming hard from his ride.

  “By the gods!” exploded Sir Hedric, jumping to his feet.

  “How?”

  “When?”

  Toli took a deep breath. “We were set upon by assassins in the wood not far from here—only a short while ago. I went after them, but they doubled back and attacked the prince. Durwin fell protecting him.”

  “The hermit dead? The heir gone?” They looked grimly at one another.

  Toli continued, “Mount up at once and come with me. We ride to meet the king, who is pursuing them.”

  “By Zoar, these rogues will pay for this outrage!” vowed Lord Galen. “We are at your command, sir!”

  With that the knights abandoned their kill, mounted their horses, and fell into line behind Toli, who led them toward the place where he had encountered the attackers. They made their way as quickly as they could and at last reached the glade.

  It was quiet and cool in the shaded clearing. A number of tiny yellow butterflies flitted among the leaves, darting in and out of the falling beams of light that slanted in through the trees. A hermit thrush sang in the high treetops—a clear, sparkling, liquid sound, pure and sweet.

  Durwin still lay where they had left him, so still and peaceful he might have merely dozed off for a nap. No one spoke at first, overcome with the strangeness of the scene before them.

  The hermit lay dead, and yet seemed in such perf
ect peace that those who looked upon him could but stare in awe. His presence was strong in the place; each one felt it as if he had touched them.

  “Someone should stay with him,” said Lord Bossit. “I will.”

  “No,” replied Toli quietly. “He is safe here in the forest. Nothing can harm him now. Go back to the castle and lead the others here. The queen is bringing a bier. See that all is attended to.”

  “As you say, my lord.” He left at once.

  “The king rode to the south,” said Toli. He turned Riv and took up the trail. The other knights followed without a word.

  Quentin combed a wide swath through the forest, working first this way for half a league or more, and then cutting back the other way. But for all his care and vigilance, he failed to uncover any sign of the fleeing assassins.

  Still he pushed on, bending ever southward, with a feeling that this was the direction the abductors had chosen, though he knew they might well have taken another. The forest was huge; to cover it all would take scores of men and many months of diligent searching. As he rode, Quentin fought down the growing sense of futility and desperation that swelled within him, building up inside like a vile black broth set to the fire.

  He paused periodically to listen but detected only the normal, sleepy sounds of the wood. He went on.

  Then, quite without warning, Blazer stumbled down a short, steep bank of a hill, and Quentin found himself on the well-used southern road that led to Hinsenby and then bent southwest along the coast. He sat still in the saddle for a moment, scanning the road both ways. When nothing out of the ordinary presented itself to his gaze, he turned once more southward and continued on.

  After riding a little way he came to a dell where the road dipped to meet a stony-banked stream. Here he found his first clue, for in the dust of the road at the banks of the stream were a number of footprints, and the hoofprints of a horse.

  Whoever made those prints had emerged from the forest at this point, having followed the stream until it met the road. Across the stream the tracks led off down the way. Blazer splashed across the water, and Quentin leaned low in the saddle to examine the marks. It was difficult to tell anything for certain from these prints, for there were others all along the road.