The Sword and the Flame

by Stephen Lawhead

  Where was there ever a god who so much as pretended to care for his followers? None of the old gods, surely. None that he had ever learned about in the temple. If the ways of the gods were beyond the reckoning of men, then at least it made more sense to believe in the only one who held out the hope of something greater than the pitiful rituals played out by the scurrilous priests of the High Temple.

  The old gods? Those ancient ethereal impostors? Those vague, capricious forces men called upon, worshipped, and revered with the names of gods? How could he believe in them, knowing them for what they were? As an acolyte, he had served long enough in the temple to learn that a priest’s fleshy lips applied to a hole in the stone brought forth the god’s oracle, and a priest’s avaricious whim became the god’s demand.

  At least the God Most High shunned oracles and objects of silver and gold as sacrifices to win his favor. When he spoke, it was directly, and with power. Quentin had felt the power. Even if he did not feel it now and would perhaps never feel it again, he would forever remember the time when he had known beyond all doubt that the god had spoken and empowered him.

  This was more than mumbled words whispered through a speaking hole hidden in a stone. There was hope here, and that was something the old gods of earth and air, of crossroads and high places, of flowing water and seasons could never give. Quentin could still remember what it was like to live without that hope, could still remember the aching despair that would come on him when, as a boy, he lay on his straw mat in his temple cell and prayed in the night to be shown the truth. He would wait, listen, and wait some more, only to have his words fall back upon him, mocking from the silent void.

  No, having the hope he had so long sought, Quentin would not abandon it now. He could not live without hope, for without it there was no life at all. Better a life without sight, or touch, or taste, or any of a dozen other facilities, including love, than a life without hope. He knew that road for what it was and would not travel that way again.

  At Dekra he had seen the difference for the first time, had seen the sharp contrast between the hollow sham of the old religion and the true faith. Ah, Dekra . . . with her good, caring people and her quiet ways. Was he never destined to return and live out his days in peace, sur-rounded by love and beauty? Sadly, no. His course had been chosen for him, and it did not include Dekra; Quentin knew that now.

  But somehow it was enough merely to know that such a place existed on the earth, and that he could go there on occasion to revive his spirit. Yes, that was enough; he could accept it. For he would always carry a part of Dekra with him wherever he was.

  If the god chose to move in him or if he did not, so be it. He could not rule the Most High—what kind of god would allow himself to be so ruled? But Quentin could believe. That he could do, and even the Most High could not prevent it. He could believe and hope though it cost him his crown, though it cost his life!

  In that moment the choice became clear. Quentin no longer cared what the god could do for him. He would believe though it proved to be his downfall; he would continue to trust though the god himself proved untrustworthy. Yeseph had believed, and he had died believing. Durwin had believed, and he, too, carried his faith to the grave. Very well; Quentin would do no less than the men he had loved, and who had shown him how to believe. He would believe and would follow with all the strength left in him.

  That settled, Quentin turned his eyes once more toward the High Temple. Though he could not see it in the distance, he knew that it was there, perched on its plateau like a carrion bird awaiting its next feast of dead meat. Yes, his son waited within those walls, waited for him to come. He would go to him. Could he call himself “father” if he did not? He would first retrieve the sword from Ameronis, and then he would take it to the High Temple. What kind of king would he be if he allowed his only son, heir to the throne, to be killed while he had strength and will to prevent it?

  The two large rafts, made of logs lashed together with rope, slid into the night-dark water of the Sipleth while a dozen soldiers clambered aboard each, taking with them weapons and tools for breaking through the iron portcullis and gate guarding the secret rear entrance to Ameron Castle.

  Once each raft was loaded and the passengers settled in the center, the polemen shoved the ungainly vessels out into the river’s sluggish cur-rent. Traveling against the flow would not be easy, but along the bank the water’s pull was not strong, and the polemen were able to work their crude crafts slowly up the river.

  Theido sat with his men in the center of the foremost raft as they laboriously made their way upstream to the place below the walls where the bank offered them a footing so they could disembark and make for the cave entrance.

  Throughout the day the carpenters had slaved over the building of the rafts, and though they were far from elegant, Theido was relieved to discover that the crude, blockish platforms floated well enough. By nightfall they were ready, and he ordered them to be launched in order to take advantage of night’s protection to further veil their activities. He had no doubt that if even the smallest sound aroused the night watch posted on the wall, they would be discovered and their plans ruined. If Ameronis as much as suspected that they had discovered his secret tunnel, defending it would not be a problem: a trio of archers could keep any number of knights pinned down.

  Now Theido crouched with his knights and listened to the water sloshing and splashing by them as they slid along the brush-covered banks, hoping against all hope that they would not be heard or seen passing beneath the walls. The polemen worked the poles and drove the rafts forward, keeping as close to the shoreline as possible. After what seemed like hours, they came to the place where the castle rock rose up and the river pushed its way around it, carving into the cliff of stone. Moving cautiously and with agonizing slowness—for the towers rose unseen directly above them—the rafts inched forward. Straining into the night, Theido scanned the cliff face for the sign he sought—the juniper bush concealing the cave.

  As they rounded the bend of the rock, Sir Garth, who had been with him the night before when they discovered the tunnel, and had himself been inside it, raised an arm silently and pointed to a spot along the bank halfway up the cliff. There it was; Theido could just make out the place as a dark spot against the lighter stone of the cliff. He nodded silently. Yes, they were almost there.

  The first raft nosed into the stony shingle, grating softly as it came to rest. The nearest men scrambled ashore and began unloading the weapons and equipment, and then the others followed. The second raft pushed up behind the first, and those aboard made to disembark, but an overanxious departure by the first soldiers dangerously unbalanced the craft and the raft tipped, throwing the remaining passengers into the river with a tremendous splash.

  Those on the shore froze, hearts pounding, while their comrades swam to shore and dragged themselves out as quietly as possible. Each man held his breath and prayed that the sound would go unnoticed.

  They waited.

  From somewhere high up on the wall above them they heard a shout that was answered by another shout. The words were not distinguishable, but Theido guessed that one watchman had called to another to ask about the commotion. Then there came the sound of voices drifting down from above—someone was leaning over the battlements to see what had caused the splash.

  Theido raised his hand to indicate that everyone remain as still as stone. For a dozen heartbeats he relived his adventure of the night before when he had nearly been discovered. Then there came a call; those below heard it plainly. “All clear,” the voice said. The men huddled below breathed a sigh of relief.

  Theido signaled for the men to resume their work, and the rafts, unloaded now, were poled upriver a little way and hidden among the brush of the bank where the shore flattened and the forest grew close to the water. The rest of the soldiers formed a human chain and began passing the equipment from hand to hand up the side of the cliff and into the mouth of the cave.

  Sir Gar
th and Theido climbed to the cave and crawled inside. Garth produced a flint and steel and found one of the torches among the supplies being stacked at the entrance. In a moment he had the torch flaming brightly and said, “Now we will see what we are up against.”

  Holding the torch high, he led Theido deeper into the cave. They passed along narrow walls—no wider than a gallery corridor—and came to the farthest wall of the cave. Here an entrance had been opened and a tunnel cut into the soft rock. “Ages past, the river hollowed this cave. When the castle was built here, someone discovered it and connected it with this passage,” said Garth, pointing to the smooth-chiseled surface of the stone.

  He lowered his head and stepped into the tunnel. Theido followed. It was narrow—narrower than the cave, with room enough for only one man to pass comfortably. The secret passage led upward in a slight incline as it made for the castle above. The floor was dry and dusty for the most part, but as it neared the gate Theido noticed water seeping down the sides of the walls. Garth indicated this with his torch, saying, “We are passing beneath the castle cistern, no doubt.”

  Presently they came to a place where the tunnel walls widened a span, and there just ahead stood the iron portcullis, glimmering darkly in the torchlight.

  “There it is,” said Garth, placing the torch in a sconce set into the stone at the edge of the gateway. “And now that I see it in the light, I see that it is much sturdier than I had first imagined.” He ran his hand over the iron, feeling its thickness and strength.

  “Yes,” agreed Theido, “it is well made, as anyone might have guessed who knew Ameronis and his kin. And it looks in good repair.”

  “Not a speck of rust, my lord.”

  “The smiths have their work ahead of them. All the more reason to get them at it.”

  “Right away, sir.” Garth turned and started back through the darkened tunnel.

  “And Garth,” said Theido, “have the weapons brought here. I would have them close to hand.” The knight left, and Theido returned to the scrutiny of the iron barrier before him. Could they cut through it in time? And once through, what would they find on the other side?

  47

  Bria had risen long before daybreak and roused their bodyguard to begin readying the coach and horses for the day’s journey. In two days they had made good time through the soggy moorland between the low mountains of Dekra and Malmarby, and by nightfall had reached the place where they had abandoned the coach. There they made their camp for the night.

  Upon leaving Dekra, there had settled over the queen an unspoken urgency. With every step closer to Askelon, she seemed to hear a plaintive voice. Hurry! Hurry, it whispered, before it is too late! And Bria, heedful of this inner urging, pressed the group to a greater speed.

  Alinea, sensing this change in her daughter, had questioned her about it when they stopped the day before to eat along the trail. “What is it, dear? What is wrong?”

  Bria confessed, her green eyes staring off toward Askelon. “Wrong? I cannot say. But I feel as if something is about to happen, and I must be there to help it or prevent it somehow, I know not which. But my heart tells me to hurry, and I feel we must pay it heed. We must not be slow, Mother.”

  “Is it Gerin?”

  Bria considered this in the way of a mother who knows when some-thing is happening to her child though he is far away and removed from her sight. “No, it is not Gerin. I am at peace with him. It is more Quentin, I think.”

  “Has it to do with Esme’s vision, then?”

  “Yes, that must be it—at least in part. But what I am to make of that I hardly know. Still, I feel we must go with all haste and return to Askelon as soon as we can.”

  Now, at the dawn of a new day, the feeling of urgency pressed Bria even more strongly, causing her to awaken and rouse the others so that they might break camp the quicker. The little princesses, still yawning and rubbing sleepy eyes, splashed their faces with water and made a game of getting ready. Alinea herded them together and kept them out of the way of the men hitching up the coach. Bria flew to the task of repacking their sleeping bundles and helping the men stow the provisions on the coach once more.

  Esme, for her part, helped too, if a little absently. Since leaving Dekra, she had retreated more and more into herself—brooding, contemplative, and given to long periods of silence, her lovely features wrinkled in fierce scowls of concentration. What it was she was feeling inside or so fiercely thinking about which made her seem so sullen and aloof could not be determined. For when Bria attempted to draw her out, she simply replied, “I am a bit preoccupied. I am sorry; forgive me.” But following an attempt at rejoining the conversation of the others, she would slowly drift off into her intense reverie once more.

  When at last they were ready to travel again, the sun peeped above the rim of the mountains behind them. Esme turned and stared longingly in the direction of Dekra, then abruptly turned, mounted her horse, and fell in line behind the coach. By midmorning they reached Malmarby and, after greeting the entire village, arranged for Rol, the ferryman, to take them across the inlet to where the King’s Road awaited them beyond Celbercor’s Wall.

  The coach was taken across first with the horses and two of the bodyguards, whereupon Rol returned for the remaining passengers. Esme took a seat alone at the bow of the wide boat and turned to face out-ward, staring across the water. The Malmar Inlet flowed deep and dark, its waters silent and clear. As Esme stared down she felt herself drifting off, floating on the water as it stretched its mirrored surface to the great wall rising out of its depths on the far shore.

  The wall, she thought. There is something about the wall, but what? As she sat gazing at it the wall seemed to change, rising higher and higher, stretching across the entire realm, extending its mighty length until it encircled all Mensandor with a smooth, seamless face of black stone. And it grew ever higher and higher, blotting out the sun.

  “Oh, no!” she gasped. “We are cut off. Trapped! Soon there will be no more light.” She looked again and saw robed priests walking along the top of the wall and realized that it was the priests themselves who caused the wall to grow, who encouraged its ever-increasing girth. She saw the wall change, forming other walls and pillars and a roof of stone—a temple, the High Temple. And there was a multitude of people moving along the road toward the temple, wending their way up the long, winding trail to the top of the plateau where the High Temple stood. Then there came a roar like a rushing wind, and smoke rolled up, blotting all from sight; she peered through the smoke and saw not a temple any longer, but a field of stones and rubble, a desolate place overgrown with weeds and thorn thickets, where owls keened their lonely, spectral call . . .

  “Esme!”

  The lady started at the sound of her name. She turned and saw Bria sitting beside her; she had not noticed her friend approach.

  “Esme! What is happening to you?”

  Esme grasped Bria’s hands and held them, turning her eyes once more toward the wall. “I have had another vision; the god has spoken to me again.” She stared at Celbercor’s Wall rising bold and impervious before them and then shuddered as if with cold, looked around at Bria, and said earnestly, “We must go to the temple, Bria.”

  Bria searched her friend’s face for a sign, for anything that would explain her words. “Are you certain? The temple? Why?”

  Esme pressed Bria’s hands harder. “I am certain. Please, we must not return to Askelon. The temple—I saw it clearly.”

  “What else did you see?”

  “Just that. The wall changed and became a temple—and priests. Twice I have seen priests. This is the confirmation of my vision. Some-thing is to take place at the temple, and we must be there.”

  Bria nodded and said, “I, too, have felt uneasy since we left Dekra, as if I were being prodded along and urged to haste. But the temple—what about Quentin?”

  Esme shook her head. “I do not know. I did not see him, but there was a throng assembled in the courtyard of
the temple, and I know that we must be among them.”

  Bria bit her lip, then weighed the decision.

  “Please,” said Esme, “the certainty of what I have seen is strong in me. I know it is a sign from the Most High.”

  “Very well,” replied the queen slowly. “We will turn aside and ride for Narramoor and the High Temple. And let us pray that we arrive in time to do whatever it is that the god intends for us.”

  “Yes,” said Esme, “that will be my prayer.”

  All day long Ronsard waited at his post on the edge of the field. He watched as the sun rose in the treetops, crossed the vault of the heavens, and began its downward descent toward evening, and still no word came from Theido. The main body of knights and fighting men waited restlessly, burnishing lance and sword and tending to their armor, making sure it was in good repair. When the signal came from Theido, Ronsard would lead his troops into battle to storm the walls of the castle.

  For his part, Theido and his men were to come up through the castle by way of the hidden passage, sneaking in behind Ameronis’s troops to open the gates for their comrades. But the signal had not come, and that could only mean that the secret gate had not been breached.

  So, as twilight lengthened the shadows of the forest encampment, Ronsard gave the order to stand down. “We cannot attempt the walls in the dark,” he said. “But tomorrow—secret gate or no—we must fight. There is no more time to wait.” He turned to his commander, gave him instructions for the men, and turned away from the field, saying, “I will be in my tent if any messages come.”

  Throughout the camp men began taking off their armor and laying aside their weapons. Ronsard, too, removed his breastplate and gorget upon entering the tent, went to the basin standing on its tripod, dipped his hands into the cool water, and splashed his face.

  Another day gone, he thought, and now there are no more days. It must be to-morrow. Tomorrow or the king’s son will die. He stood over the basin, his hands dripping, and stared through the side of the tent, picturing the little prince captive in the clutches of the loathsome high priest. He saw the boy bound and placed on the altar and the dagger plunged into his trusting heart.