The Dragon King Trilogy

by Stephen Lawhead

  “You are fond of this animal.” Quentin turned to see Theido standing near him, reaching up to pat Balder’s white forehead.

  “I did not realize it until just now.” He smeared a tear across his cheek with his sleeve.

  “It is nothing to be ashamed of. A knight must have a thought for his mount—in battle you are partners. And this sturdy warhorse knows how to protect his rider in a fight, I’ll wager.”

  “He will be able to fend for himself, won’t he? When we turn them loose?”

  “Yes, he will manage—better than we will, I should think. But I have no intention of turning them loose if it can be helped. We need our horses desperately.” Quentin saw the look of strain in the tight lines around his friend’s eyes.

  “Is it that difficult, this road through the Wilderlands?” Quentin had not considered that it would be very much different from what they had experienced in the forest.

  “Yes. Worse than you can imagine if you have not seen it. There is no road nor path nor even trail. The whole region is naught but thickets of brush and bramble resting on a queasy bog. At least we shall have the benefit of snow to firm our footing. But even with that we must be careful—many of the bogs are fed by warm springs underground. They do not freeze in winter, though the snow will sometimes cover them over. There are few more hazardous places for a company of travelers.”

  Quentin took this news glumly and wished the journey was at an end. He was beginning to tire of the constant making and breaking of camp and the long, cold intervals between. He had long ago stopped thinking about the Harriers and the terrors they held; after days of fretting constantly and lying awake through the night, clutching his dagger, he had simply refused to consider them anymore. Now he was once again forced to wonder what they might do to him if he were caught.

  At dusk the party once more set out. The forest thinned around them as they pushed ever nearer the Wall. And so, too, did the awful dread increase. What lay behind them was not to be dwelt upon for any length of time.

  Quentin felt only partly more secure. For this run to the Wall, Toli had been mounted with him on Balder, the largest of the horses. The two sat together comfortably, Toli occupying the place behind Quentin. Although the Jher had no horses of their own, they seemed to be unafraid of them and tolerably able to handle them when given the chance. But Quentin, being the better horseman of the two, held the reins, and Toli directed the course.

  The group traveled a league and more single file behind Balder’s lead. The sky was dark overhead, moon and stars obscured by low, scudding clouds. So much the better, thought Quentin; maybe the Harriers would not see them at all.

  Finally, they reached the edge of the forest, and without hesitation Toli led them out onto a wide expanse of barren hills where standing stones lurched out of the ground sharply and at odd angles. The landscape was a desolate waste, the exposed roots of the subterranean rock shelf that pushed up inland to form the Fiskills. To Quentin it appeared a lonely, forsaken place, bare and forbidding.

  Picking up the pace, Toli led them down a steep incline to the bottom of a broad gully that had been formed by the icy waters of spring cutting through the loose soil. Above them on each side rose the banks of this dry streambed. Long icicles hung down from the lips of overhanging rock, and the slight wind that had risen behind them whispered over the craggy fissures.

  Ahead or behind they could see nothing; overhead only the blank, dark sky. But each of them began to sense a deep foreboding, almost a loathing to continue. Each step became a labor, and each turn in the way a thing to be avoided. In spite of Toli’s urgings, the party slowed and began feeling its way along haltingly.

  Quentin felt the fear wash over him and knew that it did not come from within. He had, as an acolyte, witnessed possession rituals in which a priest would call upon the god to inhabit his body for a brief time to espouse the god’s oracles. He had felt the same sensation on those occasions when the supercharged emotional atmosphere gave vent to the strange proceedings.

  This impeding force Quentin knew was foreign, and with a jolt he realized its source: the Harriers. They were coming at last.

  In the same instant Quentin framed the thought, he felt an icy tingle skitter along his ribs, and he swiveled in the saddle to peer behind him. He saw nothing; then, even as he turned to look away, he caught a glimpse of a dark shape melting into the background some distance away. What it was could not be seen, but Quentin knew in his heart that the Harriers were upon them. He jerked the reins sharply. Balder stopped dead, and Theido nearly collided with him as his animal lurched forward in the dark.

  “I saw something behind us just now,” Quentin whispered hoarsely. He saw Theido’s face only as a dark mask in the darkness around it.

  “How far back?”

  “I cannot tell,” said Quentin breathlessly. “I only saw something move back there. Listen!” As he spoke there came the patter of a stone falling into the ravine, somewhere far behind them. The thin, rattling echo was lost instantly in the void.

  “Away!” whispered Theido. The urgency in his voice made him sound small and far away. He wheeled his horse around and passed the word back. Quentin slapped Balder and let the animal have his head. They dashed into the darkness with a clatter.

  Through the twisting gorge they rode, Toli holding on to Quentin with a stubborn grip. He shouted something unintelligible into Quentin’s ear, and Quentin looked forward to see the banks on each side sloping away as they began to climb a shallow incline. A final burst and they were out of the valley.

  Rising in front of them was the massive, undulating shape of Celbercor’s Wall, a looming rampart of astonishing dimension. Quentin urged the horse forward as overhead the moon broke through the low overcast. Now he could see the vast bulwark of the Wall towering above them, although they were still some distance from the foot of it.

  The moon disappeared again as they turned, following Toli’s instruction, and began running along the face of the Wall at an angle toward it. From the sound of hooves behind him, Quentin knew the others were close behind.

  They galloped down another steep ravine and started up the opposite side. They had just gained the top of the farther bank when the moon peeped out, scattering light across the wild landscape. To Quentin’s horror, he saw in that fleeting stream the glint of steel and two riders wheeling toward him. Toli tugged at his arm, and he threw the reins to the side and headed straight for the Wall.

  A piercing shriek cut the night; at first Quentin thought it was a woman’s scream and then recognized it as the hunting cry of a hawk. A rider bolted past him, and he heard Theido shout, “To the Wall! Lead the others to the Wall!” He saw the moonlight shimmer on the thin line of Theido’s uplifted blade.

  Toli yelled and waved his arm for the others to follow as they started upon the Wall.

  “They’re upon us!” cried Trenn. His horse stumbled on the loose rock, and he went down.

  The queen, just ahead of him, turned and started back, but Durwin propelled her forward, saying, “I will help him—go on!” Her quick horse flew over the uncertain footing as nimbly as a shadow, and in an instant she was beside Quentin and Toli.

  Just ahead, but hidden from them by an outcropping of rock, Quentin could hear the clear, cold ring of steel upon steel and the wild cry of the horses as they engaged one another. They reached a sheltered hollow, and Toli threw himself to the ground and ran directly up to the very face of the Wall. Quentin blinked his eyes, for in the shifting moonlight he thought he had seen the young Jher disappear right into the huge foundations of Celbercor’s Wall.

  Toli was back almost at once, shouting and pushing them forward. Quentin heard the scream in the air above him once more, this time very close. He spun, instinctively throwing an arm over his face as Toli, leaping like a cat, caught his other arm and pulled him to the ground.

  There was a rustle in the air and a tearing sound as he went down. Then he felt a sharp pain high up in the arm he’d thrown
over his head. He saw Durwin come pounding in, and Trenn, hanging sideways over the back of his horse, slumped to the ground. Quentin rolled his eyes and saw two white wings lifting away in the night. He looked at his arm and saw that his tunic had been ripped and blood was oozing out of the wound.

  “Here is the tunnel!” someone called. Quentin felt hands lift him to his feet, and then he was running for the wall. A rider thundered up from behind them, and he heard Theido’s voice bellowing. Quentin suddenly thought it strange that he should be running like a scared deer; he wanted to sit down. The voices around him buzzed, and the air became warm. He slowed and turned. Theido said something, and Quentin cocked his head, puzzled, for Theido had begun speaking in an unknown language.

  He stopped and looked up at the twin moons hovering just overhead. He reached up to touch one, as if to pluck it and hold it in his hand. He heard music: the ringing of temple bells far away. Then the black sky turned red. Quentin blinked his eyes and sat down, marveling at this strange wonder. He felt his head slam against the smooth stone of the Wall, and the last thing he saw was Durwin’s face peering down upon him as if from a great height, speaking to him in a confused tongue. A tear rolled down Quentin’s cheek, and he knew no more.

  18

  The twinkling, shifting light spun in bright globes. Quentin could see them even though his eyes were closed. He traced their play on his eyelids for hours, half waking, half dreaming. From somewhere far away, in another room or in another world, perhaps, he heard music. High-pitched bells tinkled sharply, pricking his ears with their thin melody.

  How long he had lain watching the dancing lights and listening to the crystalline song of the bells, he did not know. Maybe hours. Maybe days. Maybe forever.

  Quentin, in his twilight world between darkness and light, drifted in and out of consciousness almost at will and was aware of nothing but the shifting globes of light, sometimes red or blue, but most often a rosy golden hue. He perceived nothing but the lights and the intonation of the tiny chimes.

  The room where Quentin lay commanded a western view of a range of low, forested mountains. They rose and fell in gentle folds like the thick, bristly fur of some mythical beast sleeping peacefully through the ages. From the balcony’s high parapet, one could look to the west and view the fiery descent of the setting sun.

  And every afternoon the earthward trail of the falling sun brought the light full through the arched double doors that opened onto the balcony. The light washed over Quentin’s inert form, transfiguring him from a pale, waxen image into a creature of living light. A wind chime hanging at the apex of the arch danced in the light breeze that capered now and then in through the open doors.

  An old woman in a white woolen shawl sat near Quentin’s high, wide bed. She held in her hands a small jar of aromatic unguent that she periodically applied to a spot just over Quentin’s heart, and to his temples. At these intervals she whispered a few brief words under her breath, holding her hands over the young man’s still, barely breathing form.

  A steady strain of visitors throughout the day came to stand at the foot of Quentin’s bed, or merely to step inside the door. They looked to the old woman, always with the same question in their eyes, and always they left with the same reply in kind: no change.

  Durwin relieved the old woman from time to time, sitting for hours gazing upon the motionless body stretched before him. In the evening he brought a cup of lukewarm broth that he administered to Quentin by means of a short, hollow tube of bone. Durwin let the broth trickle slowly down Quentin’s throat, careful not to choke him. There was never any response.

  Durwin had just administered the broth one evening when Theido came into the room.

  “Still no change?”

  “None. He hovers between life and death. Sometimes I think he might awaken; he looks about to rise up—but the moment passes away and he is the same.”

  “Can he recover, do you think? It has been nearly two months.”

  “I do not know. I have never seen this kind of illness before. Certainly no one recovers from the poison of the Shoth. Still, the people of Dekra have many powers unknown in the world abroad. And had his wound been deeper, or closer to the mark, this old woman’s art would not have mattered—he would have died within the hour, or out on the trail.”

  Durwin sighed as he looked sadly at the boy’s thin body. “We came for nothing. It is my fault he is stricken so.”

  “Do not blame yourself. If fault is to be found, we need look no further than Jaspin. After all, it was Jaspin who loosed the Harriers.”

  Durwin paused, looked at the still form in the bed, and sighed. “Still, our purpose in coming here has come to naught. It was my willfulness and pride, Theido. That is why young Quentin suffers now.”

  “It was your healing skill, good hermit. That is why he still draws breath.”

  Theido did not speak again for a long time. Then, hastily, as if fearing what he must say, he blurted, “We cannot wait any longer, Durwin. We must leave. The ships will be sailing soon for their winter’s harborage. We must secure a ship to take us to Karsh.”

  The hermit lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “You think you will find a merchant who will endanger his ship so?”

  “For the king, yes.”

  “For no king or kingdom. The fate of a king matters little to these sailors. They care nothing for the rise and fall of nations. Their loyalty swings by the heft of your purse.”

  “Then the captain who casts his lot with us will earn a king’s ransom for his trouble. The queen herself will vouch for it.”

  “Do not be so sure. They are a wild, superstitious lot. Worse than peasants when it comes to charms and sacrifices. Karsh may hold a power over them which even the love of gold cannot release.”

  “We shall see. Anyway, we have no other plan—we cannot fly.”

  “No, I suppose not. I doubt if even old Nimrood could foresee that.” Durwin laughed.

  It had been meant as a joke, but Theido remained grave at the mention of the magician’s name. “Do you think the necromancer sees so much? Does he know of our enterprise?”

  “Undoubtedly he knows—whether by art or by spies, he knows we are abroad. But I do not think he considers a party of five—”

  “Four,” corrected Theido. Durwin was about to continue when he heard a rustle at the door and Alinea stepped into the room. She went to the bed and placed a warm hand on Quentin’s cool forehead. She looked sadly upon his upturned face and then stepped over to where the men were talking.

  “Is there nothing more we can do?” Her voice lightly pleaded for the young man’s release; her eyes held a touching pity for her fallen friend.

  “All that can be done has been accomplished. Now we must watch and wait,” said Durwin.

  “Yes, I know. So you have told me often enough. I only wish there was something that could sway the balance. It is hard, this waiting.”

  “Our wait is nearly at an end,” said Theido. He caught the queen’s questioning glance and explained. “We must begin our journey to the island of Tildeen. The ships will be sailing again soon, and I am anxious to secure our passage.”

  “Then we must leave him?”

  “I think it is for the best,” offered Durwin. “He cannot travel as he is; that much is obvious. Even if he were to awaken now, he would still be too weak to travel safely. We have no choice but to leave him here. The Curatak will take care of him. When he is strong enough, he can return to Askelon; Toli will bring him safely as far as Pelgrin.”

  “Yes,” agreed Theido, “it is for the best. We do not know what awaits us in Karsh. No doubt, Quentin will be safer in Durwin’s cottage.”

  “It will break his heart to find us gone,” said Alinea. “He has come this far only to be denied . . .”

  “It cannot be helped, my lady,” said Theido. He, too, felt awful that Quentin, who had shown himself to be a stalwart and worthy companion, should now have to remain behind.

  “I know,”
she said, brightening somewhat. “I will compose a letter of safe conduct for him—should any of Jaspin’s men be roaming the way.”

  “Do you think that will matter very much?” asked Theido.

  The queen paused and looked at the other two men sorrowfully. “No,” she said quietly, “but it is the one thing I can do.”

  “Yes,” agreed Durwin. “I shall compose a letter myself, explaining all that has happened and what we intend. That should help ease his mind that we have not abandoned him unreasonably.”

  “Good! A fine idea. I will begin seeing to our provisions and equipment,” said Theido, feeling better about their leave-taking. As with most knights, he did not like leaving a fallen comrade behind in any circumstances that he could improve. He left the room with a more resolute tread than that which with he had entered it. His mind was at ease now.

  “I do not know . . . ,” murmured Durwin into his beard.

  “What troubles you, friend Durwin?” wondered Alinea. “Is there something more?”

  “More than I am telling? Yes, I do admit it.” He moved to Quentin’s bed and sat down on the edge. He placed his hand upon the boy’s chest for a moment. “I told him once that he had some part to play in this— so I still believe. But beyond that, I cannot say. And the god I serve has not illumined me.” He gazed fondly down upon the motionless form beside him. “It could be this is the beginning for him, not the end.”

  Queen Alinea nodded silently and placed her hand on the hermit’s shoulder. After a few moments of silence, they left together, leaving Quentin’s care once more to the old woman.

  19

  The snow lay melting in Askelon’s inner ward yard. The high, windswept dome of the sky appeared spotless and clean, heralding an early spring. Servants of various rank scurried across the yard, avoiding the mud and standing water as much as possible. Each was intent upon some important task. To look at them was as much as to see a column of ants hurrying about their chores with more than the usual amount of vigor.