The Dragon King Trilogy

by Stephen Lawhead

  Durwin seemed to forget that Quentin, the one designated to play the most important part in raising a sword against the enemy, had a broken arm, and maybe worse. Secretly, Quentin suspected that it was worse, that his injured arm was more severely damaged than the broken bone. It had been a long time since he had felt any sensation in the arm at all; it seemed numb, dead.

  He did not speak of his suspicion to anyone. Not even Durwin, on the night when his arm was reset and bound properly, knew that he felt nothing at all, for he had grimaced and moaned—mostly out of nervous fear—as if it had hurt him a great deal. There was something seriously wrong with his arm; he was forced to face it now when all the talk of swords and prophecy filled the night.

  As he brooded upon this unhappy fact, the thought occurred to him that perhaps he was not the one after all—not the mighty priest king foretold in the legends. Perhaps the Most High had never intended for him to be the one; it was to be some other yet unknown.

  Unexpectedly the thought sent a wave of relief through Quentin’s frame. Yes, of course, that was it. One could not very well wield the fabled sword without an arm to do so. The prophecy, if it were to remain true, pointed to another. Perhaps Eskevar was the one favored by the prophecy—he was king, after all. The old oracle’s prophecy had said that a king must wield the sword. That settled it.

  When at last they arose to take themselves off to their beds, Durwin came near to Quentin and said, “You were very quiet this night, my young man. Why?”

  “Do we not have enough to trouble us, Durwin?”

  “Aye, more than enough. But I perceived this to be a vexation of a different sort.” Inchkeith approached them now with a light burning brightly in a finely made lamp. Durwin accepted it and said, “We will find our own way, good sir. Thank you. You need trouble yourself no further on our account.”

  “The trouble, sir, is just beginning!” Inchkeith laughed. “But I chose long ago on whose side I will stand. Get your rest, gentlemen. I will be ready to join you on your journey in the morning.”

  “So it is. We will leave as soon as possible, but not until we have dined once more at your excellent table.”

  “It is a welcome change from Toli’s seeds and berries,” joked Quentin. “But we will not wish to linger overlong.”

  “Strange, I have never known you to refuse a mouthful,” quipped Toli, who had woken up and now came to stand with them. “The rain will stop before morning, but the stream will rise through the night. I shall go out at daybreak to see if it is passable.”

  “No need, sir. By morning the flood will have eased. It always does. Have no fear. We will start our journey dry tomorrow, at least. And do not trouble about your horses. I will have all in readiness tomorrow. My sons will see to it. Now, good night.”

  Inchkeith, taking up the candle on the table, hobbled across the darkened hall, the sphere of light going before him like a guiding light.

  “A most extraordinary man,” said Durwin.

  “Most extraordinary,” agreed Quentin. And they all shuffled off to their beds, where they were enchanted into sleep by the distant sound of rain on the stones of Whitehall.

  36

  The massive palace ship of Nin the Destroyer, Immortal Deity, Supreme Emperor, Conqueror of Continents, King of Kings, rocked gently in the swell. The waves rose and fell like the rhythmic breathing of an enormous sea beast. They slapped against the broad beams of the palace ship’s sides and made soft gurgling noises along the mighty keel.

  The ship was square-hulled, with three towering masts and two great rudders amidships. It was truly a seagoing palace, outfitted with costly timbers and exotic trappings from the various countries Nin had subdued. The decks were teak and rosewood from the Haphasian Islands. Brass fittings, which gleamed like red gold from every corner, came from Deluria and the Beldenlands of the east. Silks and shimmering samite fluttered from delicate screens on deck and in the honeycombed quarters below; these had come from Pelagia. Thick braided rope and the vast blue sails were made in Katah out of materials procured in Khas-I-Quair.

  The ship itself had been built in the shipyards of Tarkus under the direction of master Syphrian shipbuilders. Its makers had anticipated every necessity, foreseen all desires of the ship’s chief inhabitant, and had accommodated them in ingenious ways. Nin lacked nothing aboard his ship that would satisfy his many voracious appetites.

  The ship rode low in the water. The slightest swell could rock it gently, but a raging tempest could not overturn it. And if it moved slowly and ponderously, like its master, what of that? Time meant nothing to the Immortal Nin.

  The Emperor of Emperors lay stretched upon a bed of silk cushions, listening to the even breathing of the sea, rocking with the slight roll of the deck. His immense bulk heaved and swayed dangerously, now tossed one way, then the next. The motion was making him feel ill and irritated. With each movement of the ship, his huge, oxlike head lolled listlessly, dull eyes staring outward in mounting misery.

  Nin, with a supreme effort of will, prodded himself up on one elbow and grasped a mallet that hung on a golden thong near his head. With a backward flip of the wrist, the mallet crashed into a gong of hammered bronze. As the reverberating summons filled the room, he collapsed back onto the pillows with a moan, dragging one huge paw across his forehead in a gesture of enormous suffering.

  In a moment a timid voice could be heard, muffled as it was by the owner’s prostrate posture, saying, “You have summoned me, O Mighty One? What is your command?”

  Nin, with an effort, turned his head to regard the pathetic form of his minister. “Uzla, you lowest of dogs! What kept you? I have been waiting for hours. I shall have you flayed alive to teach you haste.” The large eyes closed sleepily.

  “May I say, Your Omnipotence, that I regret my tardiness and the blindness which prevented me from anticipating your summons. Still, I was but two steps away and now am here to do your bidding.”

  “Arrogant swine!” roared Nin, coming to life. “I should have you lick the decks clean with your festering tongue for presuming to address me so.”

  “As you wish, Most Generous Master. I will obey.” Uzla made a move as if to leave and begin scouring the decks of the palace ship.

  “I will tell you when to go and when to come. Did I not summon you? Hear me.”

  “Yes, Immortal One.” Uzla’s voice trembled appropriately.

  “Has there been no word from my warlords?”

  “I regret to inform Your Highness that there has been no such word. But as you yourself probably know, there is perhaps a message on the way even now.”

  “Nin does not wait for messages. Nin knows all! You fool!”

  “It is my curse, Great One. You would do me kindness to have my tongue torn out.”

  Nin rolled himself up on his elbow once more and teetered there like a mountain ready to topple at the slightest touch.

  “Shall I send for your chair bearers, Supreme Conqueror? They shall hoist you to your feet.”

  “I grow weary of waiting, Uzla.” The sleepy eyes narrowed slyly. “I do not wish to remain here anymore.”

  “Perhaps you desire to be somewhere else, Master of Time and Space. Shall I make your desires known to your commander?”

  “I have been patient with this desolate country long enough. The conquest is taking too long.” One pudgy hand rubbed a sleek jowl with impatience. “We will go up the coast to the north to make ready to enter Askelon, my new city. I have spoken. Hear and obey.”

  “It shall be done, Master. I will tell the commander to set sail at once.”

  “I feel like a common thief,” growled Lord Wertwin under his breath. “I would much rather lead the mounted assault of the camp.”

  “We have been through all that, my lord,” Theido explained patiently. “Ronsard is better suited than either of us for such duty. He has experience in the Goliah wars to aid him.”

  “I was in the Goliah wars too,” whined Wertwin.

  “Yes
, of course. However, before this night is through, and before our campaign is ended, we will both be thankful for Ronsard’s bold blade. I will tell you plainly that I would not welcome a ride into the camp of the Ningaal.”

  “Hmph!” Wertwin snorted. He trudged off to his appointed station with his men, now armed with longbows and arrows and hidden in a bushy hollow.

  The army of the Dragon King, such as it was, had been training with their new weapons and reclaiming rusty skills. They were now ready to try them in combat with the Ningaal and had, with extreme care and cunning, moved to within a stone’s throw from the camp of their enemy. The archers lay hidden behind trees and bushes, in hollows of furze and within gorse hedges. Despite the grumbling that had accompanied the announcement of the proposed change in tactics, there was a tingling of excitement in the air as the men readied themselves for the ambush.

  “Theido, are your archers in place?” asked Ronsard, bending to whisper from his saddle. It was very late; the moon was low in the western sky, slightly above the horizon. The knight’s face shone faintly, but his features were barely discernible.

  “They are.” The two men looked at one another briefly. Theido reached a hand out and gripped his friend by the arm. “Take no undue risks. This business is risky enough.”

  “Do not worry. Surprise is on our side—this once, at least.”

  “The Most High God goes with you, my friend.”

  Ronsard cocked his head slightly. “Do you suppose he cares about such things as this?”

  “Yes, I believe he does. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I have never prayed to a god before a battle. I did not consider it meet to invoke the aid of heavenly powers on earthly strife. It is man’s fight and should be settled by man’s own hands.”

  “The Most High is concerned with the well-being of his servants. By his hand alone are we upheld in all we do.”

  Ronsard straightened in the saddle, pulled the reins back, and wheeled his steed around. “I have much to learn about this new god, Theido. I hope that I may have time to learn it!”

  The knight returned to the place where his men were waiting, already mounted and eager to be about their task. He glanced around at all of them, checking each one for readiness. In order to move more quickly in the saddle and more nimbly, Ronsard had required his raiders to don only hauberk and breastplate, leaving the rest of their armor behind. They each carried their long swords and small tear-shaped bucklers upon their forearms.

  Ronsard nodded, completing his inspection. “For honor! For glory! For Mensandor!”

  With that he turned and led his men into the wooded grove wherein the Ningaal lay encamped.

  Theido saw his friend disappear into the darkened wood; he thought he saw his right hand raised in salute. The fifteen horses and men, Ronsard’s bravest, slipped into the darkness. Theido offered a prayer for them as they passed, and then he took his place, sword in hand.

  He waited. The night seemed to grow suddenly still. He could hear nothing save the night wind sighing in the trees and a nighthawk keening as it soared among the scattered clouds.

  And then it came: a startled shout, cut off short. And then more shouts interspersed with the cold ring of steel on steel. Then the sounds became confused—horses whinnying and men giving voice to their battle cries. In a moment he heard the sound of horses crashing back through the wood, much more loudly than they had gone in.

  “Here they come!” shouted Theido to his archers. He raised his sword high above his head. In two heartbeats a charger came pounding out of the darkness, its rider low in the saddle. The rider did not stop when he reached the ranks of hidden archers, but continued on down the dale.

  “Draw your bows!” Theido shouted. Instantly there came a whisper of arrow shafts against the bow. More knights were now thundering out of the wood, and there was the unmistakable clamor of pursuit.

  “Hold steady!” cried Theido as the last knight dashed by him but a pace from where he crouched waiting. He bit his lip—he had not seen Ronsard emerge from the wood.

  They waited, bowstrings taut.

  Then suddenly the knight appeared at the opening in the wood where he had entered only moments before. He paused and waved his sword. The shouts of his pursuers now filled the wood and echoed in the dell beyond. Theido could see torches, blinking as they waved through the wood. “Get on! Get away!” muttered Theido under his breath. Ronsard spun and galloped into the clearing and away down the dell as the first of the Ningaal came running out behind him.

  “Let fly!” shouted Theido, and instantly the night was filled with dark missiles.

  The first rank of Ningaal stumbled forward and dropped to the ground without a sound. Their comrades boiled out of the wood behind them and hesitated, uncertain what had become of those just ahead. In that moment’s pause, death fell upon them as arrow after arrow streaked to its mark.

  The enemy was thrown into confusion and dropped back into the cover of the dark wood with shouts of terror and cursing. But as the first force was joined by others from the camp, Theido thought he heard the coarse, authoritative shouts of the warlord himself. Almost at once Ningaal broke from the forest, but this time they crouched low to the ground and held their shields around them, making very difficult targets for Theido’s archers.

  “Get ready, men!” ordered Theido. The Ningaal were now moving more quickly over the ground between them. “Let fly!” shouted Theido, and his words were answered by the rattling scrape of arrow points upon the Ningaal shields. But some of the arrows found a home, and cries of shock and outrage stabbed the night as the shafts bit deep.

  “Retreat!” cried Theido a moment later. He had seen the warlord upon his horse jump into the clearing, surrounded by his bodyguard.

  The knight and his archers did not wait to welcome the newcomers with feathers. Instead they jumped up and ran yelling into the dell, just as Ronsard and his knights had done. A mighty shout arose from the throats of the Ningaal, who now believed that they had the king’s army on the run. They bolted after the fleeing archers, treading over the bodies of their comrades.

  Theido led his men down the slope and into the dell, across the small brook at its bottom, and up the other side to disappear just over the crest of the hill beyond. The triumphant Ningaal, bellowing praises to their destroyer god, dashed after them, heedless of the darkness that lay upon the land. They rushed headlong, recklessly, into the valley.

  As soon as Theido and his men vanished over the hill, the first Ningaal were fording the stream with shouts and curses of anger. Hundreds more of the dark enemy were pounding out of the wood after them to gather in the dell, stopped momentarily by the obstacle of the brook. And once more, in that moment, whistling death streaked out of the skies as Lord Wertwin’s archers, hidden all along the sides of the narrow valley, loosed their sting upon them. The Ningaal shrieked in pain and horror, as terrified beasts mortally wounded by an unseen assailant.

  Arrows hailed down upon them from every side. Ningaal running out of the woods fell upon their comrades and trapped those trying to flee from the deadly ambush. Those who went down never rose again.

  In a moment all who had thrown themselves down into the valley lay still. No more Ningaal came from the forest. No one moved.

  “Let us escape now, while we may,” whispered Theido. “The victory is ours if we do not long remain here. They will be back, and soon.”

  Ronsard gave a silent signal, and the men, knights, and archers began melting away into the night as quickly and as silently as the shadowy clouds before the moon. Lord Wertwin’s force joined them, and they left the field in an instant, leaving it to the fallen Ningaal.

  That night warlord Gurd lost five hundred. The Dragon King did not lose a single man.

  37

  The rain-washed sky arched high above like a limitless blue dome. The air was cool and fresh, scented with balsam and pine and the damp of earth. The grass still sparkled with raindrops, glittering like diamonds in
the early-morning light. The party had eaten a fine meal at Inchkeith’s table and had, thanks to the master armorer’s sons, set off without raising a hand—except to down goblets full of Camilla’s excellent mulled cider.

  Quentin, well fed and rested, had quite forgotten his apprehension of the night before. He had convinced himself that his arm was better— and that it would surely fully heal. But he still could not see how he could be expected to wield a sword before his bones had knit. Thus the awesome prospect of his being the mysterious, legendary priest king seemed remote and almost ridiculous. In the dazzle of a brilliant new day, he felt ashamed and embarrassed for having had the audacity to presume himself to be in any way central to fulfilling the prophecy.

  Of course, it had been a presumption fostered by Durwin, Biorkis, and, for all Quentin knew, Toli. But he had allowed them to lead him into thinking that the prophecy might indeed point to him. The whole thing was foolish, preposterous. Quentin could see that now. He told himself so, and he believed it.

  The horses had clattered out of Whitehall’s courtyard at first light. Through the cleft in the ridge wall, golden rays of sunlight sliced the violet shadow of the canyon like a blade. It appeared to Quentin as they rode through the gatehouse and out onto the broad meadow, their horses cantering in high spirits, that they moved upon a trail of light all golden and green and shimmering. Everything that came into view, every tree and rock and mountain peak, seemed clean and new and vibrant with life. It was as if the world had been created anew during the night, and the old world had been cast off as a pale, pathetic parody of the true thing. Quentin imagined that he was seeing it all for the first time and that this was how it had looked when the world was young.

  He heard a strange whoop behind him and turned to see Durwin’s face radiant in the golden light, mouth open and head thrown back, laughing. And then suddenly he was laughing too. Toli started singing, leading them all in a song which he called “Pella Olia Scear” or “Song of the Morning Star.”