The Sword and the Flame

by Stephen Lawhead

  “It is time,” said Nimrood. “The king is not coming.”

  High Priest Pluell turned his eyes to the sky and said, “No, it is not time yet. It is not yet midday. You said we would wait until midday.”

  Nimrood drew a breath and seemed about to protest, but held his tongue and instead said, “As you will, priest. We will wait yet a little longer. I am not so anxious that I cannot savor the waiting.”

  The yard fell silent all around. Not even the wind stirred the leaves of the trees lining the wall—trees into whose branches the curious had climbed to better see what would take place.

  They waited.

  Toli glanced down at Prince Gerin, standing beside him. He nodded as if to say, Courage; he will come. The boy returned it with one of his own, which replied, I know, and I am not afraid.

  The clouds rolled overhead, angry and swollen, hard and black as smoked amber, flying away on swift storm winds. An unnatural twilight descended over the temple yard, as if the sun had withdrawn and refused to shed its warmth and light on the proceedings.

  Still, they waited.

  At last Nimrood could stand it no longer. “There is no more time. It is midday, and the king is not here. He is not coming. Bring the prisoners.”

  The guards looked at one another and hesitated.

  “Bring them!” shouted Nimrood, his voice shrill. The high priest, shaking visibly now, nodded and turned his face away. The guards thrust the captives down the steps with their weapons.

  Toli started forward, lifted his foot, and then stumbled, rolling down the steps. “Run!” he shouted to the prince as he went down. Young Gerin leaped down the steps and dashed forward into the crowd.

  “Stop him!” roared Nimrood. “Bring him back!”

  Before the knights standing with the queen could lift a hand, one of the temple guards whirled around and seized the prince by the nape of the neck, hauling the kicking lad off his feet.

  “Gerin!” cried the queen. “Gerin!” She struggled forward, thrusting out her hands in a desperate attempt to reach him, but was stopped by the lance of the remaining guard. “My son!”

  Toli was hauled to his feet and shoved forward. “A very clumsy effort for a nimble Jher,” clucked Nimrood. “For your trouble you will be allowed to witness the sacrifice of the boy. I had planned it the other way around.”

  With that, Nimrood swooped down and lifted the lad onto the altar, where Gerin fought to free himself. One guard held his feet, and another pulled his bound hands over his head. Toli shouted and dived toward the altar, but the guards around him grabbed his arms and held him fast.

  “No!” shrieked the boy’s mother, her features twisted in horror. Esme threw her arms around the queen and held her tightly.

  “The knife,” said Nimrood to the high priest. “Take up your dagger.”

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  Dagger?” High Priest Pluell’s face blanched even whiter than before. He patted his robes absently. “I seem to have misplaced my dagger. I do not have it with me.”

  Nimrood smiled maliciously. “I thought you might have forgotten yours—conveniently, too, I might add. So I brought my own.” He with-drew a long, thin poniard from beneath his robe and, taking the high priest’s hand, placed the knife in it. “Now then, High Priest. Do your duty!”

  Pluell, eyes glazed and the sweat of fear glistening slick on his brow, turned a stricken countenance upon the queen, whose face was hidden in her hands, and upon his evil accomplice, who smiled thinly and nodded. “Do it!” Nimrood croaked, his eyes sparkling with glee.

  The dagger shook in the high priest’s hand, but he turned to where the young prince lay on the altar and raised his arm above the boy’s heart. Gerin closed his eyes and drew his mouth into a tight pucker so that he would not cry out.

  The knife hung in the air, hesitated, and—

  “Stop! The king is here! Wait! The Dragon King is coming!”

  With a sigh the air rushed through the high priest’s teeth; his arm wavered and dropped to his side, and he fell back away from the altar.

  In a moment the crowd parted, and the king’s stallion came clattering into the yard. Quentin reined Blazer to a halt, the courser’s hooves striking sparks from the paving stones, and threw himself from the saddle.

  He advanced toward the temple as those with him—Theido and Ronsard, Lord Edfrith, and a host of knights and men—came pounding from behind into the already-overcrowded yard. The people drew away from the king, giving him wide berth as he approached the altar.

  “I have brought the ransom,” Quentin called out boldly. “Let my son go!” He directed his challenge at the high priest, who drew back among the other priests at the edge of the temple steps.

  “That will not do, my king,” replied Nimrood coolly.

  Quentin turned to face him across the distance between them.

  “Who are you?” He stepped closer, his eyes on the old man’s face, struggling to read some recognition there. “Do I know you?”

  “We have never met,” the old man replied. “But I think you know me.”

  “I ask again. Who are you?”

  “A name? Very well, I shall give it. You see before you none other than Nimrood, known as the necromancer once long ago, before my power was shorn from me.”

  “Nimrood!” It took all of Quentin’s strength not to stagger back-ward as the knowledge rocked him to the core. “You rise from the dust of death like one of your ghastly creations!”

  “Yes, and I have come to claim my revenge.” He stepped behind the altar and motioned to the guards holding the boy to remove him. “Your sword, proud king, the Shining One—that was to be the ransom. Where is it?”

  Quentin drew the sword; it whispered as it slid from the scabbard. He held it up for all to see and started for the altar.

  Nimrood held up a hand. “Not like that!” he screamed. Quentin halted. “On your knees! I want all your subjects to see you bow to me. I want you to acknowledge me before all these witnesses.”

  Quentin advanced two more steps and came to the altar.

  “On your knees, proud king!”

  “Never!” shouted Quentin. “You ask for the sword; here it is. You will get nothing more from me.”

  “Bow to me on your knees, or the boy dies!” Nimrood whirled around and snatched the dagger out of the startled high priest’s hand. In a flash the knife blade lay against the young boy’s throat. “Kneel, Great King, or lose your son and heir.” The rasping voice dripped venom.

  Quentin, every fiber of his being rebelling at the act, dropped slowly to one knee. He glared frightfully at Nimrood, who smiled wickedly as he held the knife against the prince’s neck. The people were silent as death, watching the humiliation of their king.

  “Now the sword,” said Nimrood, breaking the unearthly silence. “Lay it on the altar.” His words stabbed like dagger points, penetrating to the farthest reaches of the temple yard so that every man there heard plainly what was said.

  The Dragon King raised the sword once more and held it by the hilt. This sword, he thought, is the Shining One promised me in the dream long ago, and given to me by the hand of the Most High. It is the sword of the Most High him-self; I cannot give it up to Nimrood. I cannot lay it upon that altar; to do that would be an act of worship to that depraved monster. I will not forsake the true God—not to save my life or the life of my son.

  Quentin turned the sword in his hand and looked at it, and then at Nimrood. He rose to his feet once more.

  “On your knees!” screamed Nimrood. “Bow down to me!”

  Quentin raised the blade above his head in both hands and turned his face toward the heavens. “Most High God,” he said, his words ringing in the silence of the temple yard, “hear your servant. Show your power now; exalt yourself in the midst of our enemies. Let your justice burn like a flame in the land, that all men may worship the true God.”

  “Your god is deaf, it seems,” scoffed Nimrood. “Ha! There is no true god. Pray to me, Dragon Ki
ng! Perhaps I will grant your prayer!”

  Quentin, eyes closed and face turned upward, did not listen to Nimrood’s mocking laughter, but instead prayed as fervently as he ever had in his life, pouring himself out before the Most High. And in that moment he felt the blade grow warm in his hand. He opened his eyes and looked skyward as the heavy black clouds parted and a single shaft of light fell upon him, striking the blade in his hand. He stood in a circle of golden light, and as he looked, the light played along the tapering blade, winking in the gems at the hilt. The light was alive, and out of it a voice spoke, saying, “Throw down the altar! It should have been thrown down long ago!”

  Suddenly fire fell from the sky, dropping through the air like burning rain to strike the sword. Zhaligkeer flashed, its flame rekindled and blazing with white heat into the gloom round about. The people could not bear the piercing brightness and threw their hands over their eyes to shut out the awful splendor of that holy fire.

  The flame is back in the sword! thought Quentin. The Most High has not abandoned me! He is still with me; he never left! The realization burned through Quentin just as the flame burned in the sword.

  “The sword! The sword!” howled Nimrood. “Give me the sword!”

  “No!” shouted Quentin. It flashed with terrible brilliance, and fire seemed to leap from the shimmering blade, scattering light all around. “You shall never hold this blade.”With that, the king raised the Shining One over his head and brought it down with all his strength onto the massive stone altar.

  There came a blinding flash and the sound of hot metal suddenly plunged into cold water as the scent of burning stone seared the air. The ground rumbled deep in the earth, and the stone slab of the altar tipped, tilted, and then slid sideways, cloven in half, the stone jagged and smoking from the place where the Shining One had bitten deep into the rock.

  A cry went up from the crowd, a gasp from a thousand throats, and they drew back as one from the sight of their king standing before the crumbling altar with the flaming sword in his hand.

  The high priest threw his hands upward in horror and ran back up the steps into the temple, his priests fleeing with him. The temple guards threw down their weapons and ran after.

  Nimrood’s arm went up; the dagger flashed in his hand. Toli, seeing his chance, lowered his head and charged into the sorcerer, knocking the boy from his grasp. Gerin sprawled forward, rolled to his feet, and dashed to his mother’s open arms. Bria swept him up and hugged the boy to her. The crowd surged forward around them.

  “You!” screeched Nimrood at Toli. “Twice you have cheated me. Never again!” Toli leaped to the side, but with his hands bound could not keep his balance and fell backward onto the steps of the temple.

  Like a cat the old wizard pounced on him and plunged the dagger into Toli’s chest, then fled up the steps to the High Temple.

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  The ground rumbled and tumbled under their feet, and the crowd in the temple yard screamed in terror as the ground shifted, cracking paving stones and tearing great gaping rents in the earth. The crevice that had opened beneath the broken altar spread toward the temple. Heedless of all else, Quentin flew to the temple steps, shouting, “Theido! Ronsard! Hurry!” He reached Toli’s body, now crumpled upon the steps, and bent over him. He stared at the dagger in his friend’s chest. With no time to think about the consequences, he drew the blade from Toli’s chest and flung it away.

  From above him on the steps there came a rattling laughter. He glanced up and saw Nimrood standing over them, his head thrown back, the hateful sound bubbling up from his throat like the shriek of a carrion crow. Ronsard reached Quentin first. “Take Toli to safety,” the king ordered. He leaped to his feet and flew up the temple steps.

  “Sire! Come back! It is falling!” cried the knight.

  The fissure in the earth had now reached the steps and split them. The air trembled with the sound of churning earth and shattering stone. Roof tiles rained down, smashing on the flagging. The pillars swayed dangerously as the lintels cracked and gave way, sending huge chunks of stone careening downward. Quentin scrambled up the heaving steps, the sword bright in his hand. Nimrood saw him and screeched, “Stay back!” He whirled away and Quentin raced after him, catching the sorcerer by a trailing edge of his priest’s robe.

  “Ach!” Nimrood fought to free himself from the robes, but only entangled himself further. Quentin held on with all his might and yanked, jerking the wizard off his feet. Desperately the old sorcerer writhed, squirming on the tilting floor like a snake. “Save me!” he hissed. “I will do anything—anything you ask. I can give you wealth, bring you glory! I will destroy your enemies! Save me!”

  The blade flashed in Quentin’s hand, and the Shining One sang in the air, descending in a deadly arc, striking down upon the sorcerer’s neck. With one last shriek he fell back into a shriveled heap and lay still. Nimrood the necromancer was dead.

  Now stones and brickwork tumbled, and the pillars groaned as pieces of the roof caved in. Quentin could hear the thunderous roar as the heavy stone slabs collapsed, and the foundation beneath his feet shook with the cataclysm. The great heart of stone on which the High Temple stood shuddered and convulsed.

  Those inside the temple fell on their faces before the sacred rock and called upon the gods of old to save them: Ariel! Azrael! Zoar! Heoth! But the names fell from their lips dead and devoid of power. The floor rolled under them, and they watched in horror as a seam opened in the anointed face of the sacred rock. The stone splintered and popped as it crumbled before their eyes. The priests wailed and prostrated themselves, covering their heads with their robes.

  In the temple yard the terrified populace swept through the gates and streamed down the winding trail to safety in the valley below. Dodging broken flagstones, Quentin ran back across the courtyard to where Toli’s body had been removed.

  Theido and Ronsard looked on as Quentin sank to his knees beside the body of his friend. “Toli, forgive me!” he cried, snatching up a lifeless hand and clutching it to him. “I drove you from me. I blamed you for all that happened, and it was not your fault. I have wronged you, my friend. I am sorry!” The king wept, tears flooding his eyes and splashing freely down his face.

  The others came to stand by him; he felt Bria’s hands on his shoulders. “He is gone!” sobbed Quentin. “And I am to blame!”

  Esme knelt down beside Quentin and laid a hand on his sleeve. “In Dekra I had a vision—a vision of what happened here today.”

  “You knew?” The king raised sorrowful eyes to the lady beside him. “You saw all and did not try to prevent it?”

  “Not all. I saw the temple brought down—but not the fates of Toli and Gerin,” she said. Quentin only stared sadly at the body of his friend. “The Most High showed me what would come, and I did not see the death of our friend. That was never in his purpose.”

  “That may be,” said Theido. “But things happen in this world contrary to the Most High’s purpose. It is the way of the world.”

  “Aye,” agreed Ronsard, nodding sadly. “No man rises from the bed of death.”

  “Why not,” Esme asked, “if it pleases the god?”

  Just then another tremor shook the yard, and all turned to see the last remnants of the High Temple crashing down in a thunderous roar. Smoke and dust climbed toward the sun in a thick gray-white column. “You see this?” said Esme. “The temple is destroyed just as it was revealed to me. It is gone, and its evil is destroyed with it.”

  They looked on in wonder as Esme, her face illuminated with a glowing inner light, stretched her hands over Toli’s body. She touched the crimson wound in his chest with her palm, then pulled back his tunic. The cloth around the wound was sticky with blood and ragged where the dagger had slashed into the flesh. But though the skin was stained a deep red from the flowing blood, there was no wound to be seen.

  “Look!” said Queen Bria, who was clutching at her mother’s sleeve. “Toli is awaking!”

  “H
e is alive!” shouted Gerin happily.

  “Toli?” said Quentin, peering into his friend’s face. Toli’s eyelids flickered and opened, revealing quick black eyes that gazed upward at the ring of faces above him. “Toli, you are alive! Alive!” Quentin fell upon him and lifted him in a powerful embrace.

  Theido and Ronsard stared in disbelief at the scene before them, then leaped forward to pound Toli on the back. Bria and Alinea wept, their eyes filling with happy tears. Gerin jumped and whooped for joy.

  “What did I do to deserve all this?” asked Toli when they released him at last.

  “I would not have believed it if I had not been standing here to see it!” Ronsard shook his head in amazement.

  “I am not sure I believe it yet,” added Theido.

  Esme threw her arms around Toli’s neck and kissed him. “How do you feel?”

  “Feel? I feel . . .” He paused and glanced around him at the ruin of the temple, and then down at his own blood-soaked clothing. “I feel as if I missed out on something . . . Nimrood! Is he—”

  “Dead. They are all dead,” said Quentin. “But you have rejoined the living.”

  “Did Nimrood do this to me?”

  “A mortal wound, sir,” said Theido. “I saw him strike you down. Do you remember it?”

  Toli shook his head dazedly. “I remember knocking Gerin free and falling backward. I remember his face above me . . . then nothing—until I woke up here.”

  “The Most High has restored your life to us, Toli,” declared Alinea. “Great is the Most High!” They all joined in praising the god and thanking him for raising up Toli. Their joyous cries rang in the empty yard and echoed among the heaps of fallen stone as they started down the winding trail to the valley below. Above them the smoke and dust still ascended from the ruin, drifting and fading on the wind as the clouds rolled away to reveal a sky of sparkling blue.

  By the time they reached the valley and passed before the wondering stares of the people lining the trail, word was already winging through-out Mensandor, proclaiming the triumph of the Dragon King and the power of the new god, the Most High, the only true God, who caused altars to crumble, temples to fall, and dead men to rise up and walk.