The sword and the flame dk-3

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The supposed pilgrim opened his mouth, but the words stuck on his tongue.

  “Answer quickly, friend! I find your manner most peculiar.”

  The traveler flushed. “No, there was no boy with them. I saw none, at least.”

  “Liar!” shouted Quentin, scowling furiously. “In truth I saw the hoofprints at the water, and they continue this way.”

  The temple guard stared at the King sullenly and said nothing.

  “It is no small thing to lie to your King,” continued Quentin in a voice strained but in control. “I will give you one more chance. Where did they go?”

  “I know not, Sire. Please… it is not-”

  “Are you in league with them?” shouted Quentin. “Answer me!”

  Just then there was a rustle in the bushes at the side of the road. Quentin whirled around as another man, dressed like the first in dark tunic and long cloak despite the heat of the day, leaped from his hiding place, sword in hand. The second man lunged clumsily forward, eyes showing terror. “Strike!” cried this attacker. Quentin turned to see a blade appear in the first pilgrim’s hand as well.

  Zhaligkeer sang as it slid from the sheath; the long blade shone forth with cool brilliance from its fierce inner fire. Quentin swung the mighty sword overhead “You! You killed Durwin!” he cried.

  The two men saw the terrible sword and fell back with a startled cry.

  “Murderers!” shouted Quentin. “Cowards!”

  “Mercy!” cried the first assailant “Mercy… I beg you!” Rage like molten metal seared through Quentin’s mind; its wild fury rushed through him with blinding force. “I will show you mercy,” he cried, “the mercy you showed Durwin!”

  Before the man could turn and flee, the Shining One whispered in the air and flashed in a deadly downward arc. The would-be assassin quickly lifted his blade above his head to take the blow, but the sword shattered in his hand and the pieces fell to earth. He shrieked and fell to his knees, the sound of certain death whistling after him.

  “Mercy!” he screamed “Forgive me!” Bright Zhaligkeer filled his horror-stricken eyes with its unearthly light, and he threw his hands over his face. The stroke caught him at the base of the neck, cutting short his last cry of remorse. The man pitched forward into the road, dead when he met the ground.

  A thin crimson ribbon trickled along Zhaligkeer’s blade. Quentin swiveled in the saddle to meet the second villain, who threw down his weapon and dove headlong into the brush, disappearing into the forest.

  The rage which had burned so hot in Quentin’s veins left him as suddenly as it had flared. The King stared at the misshapen heap in the dust, then at the sword in his hand, and his heart froze in his chest. Zhaligkeer’s fiery blade now appeared as any ordinary metal, glimmering darkly in the fading light of late afternoon.

  The bright white flame of the Shining One had gone out.

  TWELVE

  SILENTLY THE women entered the glade-little more than a wide place in the trail. Esme swung down from her horse, and Bria from hers. Lord Bossit halted the small, two-wheeled wagon which carried the bier. The wooden wheels creaked to a stop, the only sound heard in the place.

  “Oh!” gasped Bria as she beheld the beloved hermit. She walked slowly but steadily forward and knelt beside the body. Quietly her tears began to fall.

  Esme approached and put an arm around the Queen’s shoulders.

  “Good-bye, fair friend,” whispered Bria. Her outstretched fingers touched Durwin’s folded hands, now cold. She then turned to Lord Bossit, who stood reverently nearby. “My mother is waiting,” she said. “Let us take him back.”

  Bossit nodded to the driver of the wagon, and the two men lifted the body onto the waiting bier.

  When told of the tragedy Alinea had said nothing, though her hands trembled. When she spoke, her voice was soft, yet steady; she had already mastered her grief, or had put it aside for the moment.

  “Yes,” she had said, “you must go at once and bring him back, take him to his apartments. We will prepare the body there. I will await your return, and while I wait I shall pray-for Prince Gerin, yes, but no less for Quentin and for the rest of us. Now go, and may the Most High be with you.”

  Esme had marveled at the dowager’s quiet strength; her bearing calmed those around her, removing much of the sting of the bitter news. Esme recalled another dark day long ago now, the day Eskevar had fallen in battle. Days after the King’s funeral, Esme had asked the Queen how she had been able to remain so strong, comforting all around her, yet seeming never to require comfort herself.

  “No, I am not strong,” Alinea had told her. They were sitting in the garden among the primroses. Durwin was there, too. He had been the Queen’s constant companion during those troubled days. “Though it is true I am no stranger to grief, one never becomes a friend to sorrow. But Durwin here has shown me the way of hope. This hope I carry within me makes the burden lighter, and I find I am able to help others who have not such hope.”

  “Then tell me, my Lady, for I would know. How can I obtain this hope of yours? Where is it to be found?” Esme had asked. She still remembered Alinea’s words.

  And she remembered Durwin’s too. “The hope you seek is born of belief in the Most High, the One True God of all,” he had told her. “Seek him and you will find him. He is ever reaching out to those who truly desire to know him.”

  “What must I do? Where is his temple?”

  Durwin laughed. “He is not like other gods. He has no temple, and accepts no gifts of silver or gold, or sacrifices of helpless creatures.”

  “No?” This she found most puzzling.

  “No,” laughed Durwin again. “He wants you. All of you: your heart and spirit. He wants your love and worship, everything-he will not settle for less.”

  “This is a demanding god you serve, hermit,”

  “Yes, he is as you say-demanding. But the blessing he bestows

  it was nearly severed from the shoulders. The man’s shattered sword lay in pieces beneath him.

  “Someone wanted this one dead,” remarked Lord Galen, “to strike such a blow.”

  “Who could have done it?” wondered Sir Dareth. “There are no robbers abroad in this forest, surely.”

  “Highwaymen would not have set upon such as this. See how he is dressed?” replied Sir Hedric. “Perhaps there was a falling out among thieves.”

  “Or kidnappers,” said Toli slowly. “Yes, I would swear this was one I dealt with in the forest earlier this day. Or another of their company.”

  “But to strike him down in the road-why?” Sir Dareth shook his head. “It makes no sense. They must have known we would find him.”

  Toli made a quick search of the immediate area, sifting among the confused tracks in the dust for a clue to what had happened. But he gleaned little for his efforts. There were far too many prints-it was impossible to tell how many men had passed, or who among them had horses and who were afoot. Still, he counted tracks of at least two horses, and one rider had apparently been involved in the fight that had ended the kidnapper’s life.

  “I believe,” said Toli, looking southward, “the King might have passed this way.”

  “You think this unfortunate attacked the King?” asked Lord Galen incredulously. “It was ill-advised, though there must have been a reason.”

  Toli nodded thoughtfully and cast a glance skyward. The sun stretched long shadows across the road. “We must bury him quickly. We are already losing the light. I want to follow the trail as long as possible.”

  At Toli’s command, the knights began hacking a shallow grave in the brush at the side of the road, using their swords for the task. Toli and Lord Galen examined the victim’s clothing for any clue to who he might have been, or where he might have come from.

  When the corpse had been disposed of, the four set off again, though the sun was well down and the first of the evening stars winked overhead. A chill seeped out of the wood as the sky deepened to twilight, but the riders p
ressed on, heedless of their fatigue or the hunger beginning to gnaw just in back of their belt buckles.

  I am certain Quentin was back there, thought Toli as he rode along. I can sense it. But there was something else, too. Something very powerful-more than the death of that unfortunate would account for. But what? What could it be?

  THIRTEEN

  “WELL, TIP,” the round little man said, “here’s a comely spot to rest yer bones, eh? Or shall we walk a wee bit further?”

  The dog looked at her master and wagged her tail

  “Oh, quite right, quite right. We’ve come fer enough today. No sense getting amuch away from the road. Quite right ye are.” With a clink and a clatter, Pym the tinker began shaking off his burdens, loosening packs and sacks and strings of pots, pans and tools, all of which he carried with him on his back.

  But one package he placed carefully on the ground, propping it upright against a stone. His bright eyes glittered with glee, and he rubbed his hands with delight. “Now, Tipper, some firewood!” He clapped his hands. “Jest the thing, eh? Jest the thing. ‘Twill be darking soon. First fetch the wood and the fire will follow, eh? Quite right.”

  In no time the little tinker and his dog were curled before a cozy fire, drinking their soup, watching the stars come out in the sky as night settled peacefully over the land. Every now and then the man stole a look toward the slender, rag-wrapped package that he had propped up against the stone.

  “See that, Tip? There’s our fortune,” he would say and then chuckle to himself.

  When they had drunk their broth and sopped the last of it with hunks of dry black bread, the tinker reached for the bundle and laid it across his knees. “Lookee, Tip,” he said. “Old Pym has found our fortune. Yes, he has. I told ye he would, I told ye. Lookee, look!”

  He carefully pulled the rags away with trembling fingers. And there revealed in the flickering firelight was a great sword: long and thin, tapering almost imperceptibly along its smooth, flawless length to a deadly point The grip and hilt shone in the firelight as if cut from gemstone.

  “Seen a beauty this ‘un,” he said, his voice hushed in awe. “This are no common blade, no sir. Pym can tell, he can. I know a wee bit about swords, you see, and this ‘un’s a royal blade if ivver I saw one. Yes, it is.” His fingers traced the fine markings along the blade, hardly daring to touch it. His eyes filled with wonder at the sight of the weapon.

  The big black dog watched her master, head on paws, listening to the sound of his voice.

  “Oh, yes,” he continued, “this blade’s a beauty. Nivver meant fer common hand. Some ‘un’ll give good gold fer this-a fortune, ye see. As much as ivver I ask. Why, Tip, we ‘uns’ll have enough to buy a link wagon. Oh, yes, and another sharping stone-a round ‘un with a treadle-foot ‘twould be fine. I could sharp knives and shears and plowshares and… and anything that needs sharping. Ye know I could, Tip. Ye know it. Why, we ‘uns’d make our fortune!”

  The tinker gazed at the sword happily, still not quite believing his good luck. Then a shudder went through him as he remembered how he had found the sword.

  “A shame ‘bout the body, Tip. Oh, terrible shame, that. But I had nothing to do with ‘t-not a snip. Found him like that, you see. Come upon him in the road. Not long dead, I think.

  “Ye saw him first, didn’t ye, Tip? Yes. When ye let out that growl I knew something was amiss, didn’t I? Yes. Ye don’t growl without cause, and that were cause enough. Indeed. A man dead in the road. Terrible thing. Head cut near off, and this-this sword lying in the dust beside him.”

  He took the sword in his hand and felt its quick strength. His face glowed with admiration. “Old Pym knows craftership when he see it. Yes, sir. Someun’ll give good gold to get this back-as much as ivver I ask. Enough for a wagon and a sharping stone.”

  A thought occurred to him. What if the one dead in the road was the owner? Who would give the gold then?

  He frowned and turned the blade in the firelight, shaking his head. “That ‘un nivver owned a blade like this,” he said at last. “No, sir. No one ivver did-but maybe a King.”

  Another thought struck him, and his eyes grew round in fright. What if they think I stole it? What if they think it was Old Pym killed that man and took his sword?

  “No! I nivver’d kill a man, nor take his blade. Old Pym’s a peaceable fellow. Every’un knows he is. Twas in the road. I found it there. How it got there, I cannot say.

  “But I must be careful now, oh yes. Very careful. There’s some as would steal this away from a poor old tinker. Then poor old Pym would lose his fortune.” He stared woefully at his prize, and then his face brightened once more.

  “We must hide it, Tip! That’s what we ‘uns’ll do-hide it. Wrap it up in rags and hide it somewhere so not abody can find it. We ‘uns’ll keep our eyes and ears open-look and listen, that’s right, and see what we can learn about this here sword. Yes, we ‘uns must hide it well, Tip. And so we will.”

  Deep in the forest, night had become a black curtain that cut off all sight, save the occasional glimpse of the stars overhead through the interweaving branches. The moon had not yet risen, so the forest byways were difficult to follow. Prince Gerin, shuffling head down, exhausted by his long ordeal, longed to stretch out beneath a tree to rest, and let sleep steal from him the memory of this evil day.

  “We will stop here to rest,” said Nimrood to the others. “We should have put them off the trail by now. We will not be found, but we must be careful not to be seen.”

  The men were too tired to speak. They stood wearily on their feet and looked about them, wondering dully how the old man leading them found the strength to keep going. “Hate is what keeps him afoot,” whispered one guard to the other. “Look at him, old as he is, and still spry as ever. He’d walk all night”

  “He might, but I cannot,” answered the man next to him.

  “You there!” snapped Nimrood. “Stop muttering and see to our prisoner. You will take turns guarding him. Remember, your heads are forfeit if he escapes

  Prince Gerin heard only part of what was said. The next thing he knew be was being half-dragged, half-shoved to a nearby tree, to be bound there with a cord for the night. He did not fight; he was too sleepy.

  “There now,” said his guard. “Be good and give us no trouble, young sir. We do not wish to harm you, but you must not try to get away-that could be very painful indeed.”

  Gerin only looked sleepily at the man, yawned, and lay back against the tree. In a moment he was sound asleep.

  “Look at him,” said one guard, “not a care in the world.”

  “He is the Prince, by Ariel! No one would dare lift a hand against him,” answered his companion.

  “Keep your voice down!” the other rasped. “Don’t let Longbeard hear you.

  “Ah, Longbeard. Now there’s a cold one. He is trouble-I said so from the start. Look what has happened: one dead, the Prince kidnapped. This could bring down the temple!”

  “Shh! He watches us! Remember, we are trying to save the temple.”

  “This business is no good… no good at all…” the guard mumbled. He yawned and then settled himself to sleep.

  The other sat down on a rock, chin in hand, to wait his watch. He glanced around at the others, already sleeping. Their snores droned softly into the night air. He rubbed his neck and shook his head as he felt the weariness engulf him. Yes, he thought, Ervis is right. This is a bad business. It could well bring the temple tumbling down about our ears. But I am not to blame. I only do what I am told. The High Priest himself ordered it. What choice did I have?

  He pulled his cloak around him and folded his arms over his chest; his head nodded, and soon he was sleeping like all the rest

  Quentin’s eyes burned and his back ached; he had been in the saddle all day and was not accustomed to it. He could feel his sore muscles stiffening as the chill of night seeped into his bones. Ignoring his body’s plea to stop and rest, he pulled his short cloak more tig
htly around him and plodded on.

  The trail had grown too dark to see hours ago, but still he traveled on, hoping by some miracle that he would stumble across the kidnappers. Knowing that his son was still out there somewhere in the dark, frightened, held prisoner-that thought alone kept him going.

  Heartsick, numb with misery and despair, Quentin wanted only to throw himself to the ground to weep at his misfortune. A few short hours ago he had walked in the light, his realm secure, the future a bright promise. Now there was only darkness. In the space of half a day he had lost his son, his trusted friend, and-worst of all-the favor of the Most High. His mind reeled at the enormity of his trouble, his heart ached with sorrow, his body throbbed with grief and exhaustion.

  How was it possible? How could it happen so quickly? Why was there no warning, no hint at what was to befall him? He could only shake his head in mute wonder.

  For an instant he imagined that all he need do was turn Blazer back toward home and all would be well once more. Upon reaching Askelon he would find Durwin alive and the Prince safe in his bed. His sword would be found in his chambers, lying across its hangers below the royal device-the flame intact, the god still with him.

  But it was a dream, and the grim reality remained unchanged. Hoping against hope, Quentin determined that somehow he would make everything right again. He could do it; he was the Dragon King. He would make it right. With that, he urged Blazer forward. The horse, head down, ambled on.

  FOURTEEN

  “THEY ARE here, my Lady; they have come.” The maid approached quietly, lest she disturb her Queen’s vigil.

  “What? Quentin is back? He has returned?” She jumped up, a brief light leaping to her green eyes. Then she saw the look the maid gave her and the light dimmed. “Oh.”

  “No, the King has not returned.” She shook her head, then added, “But Lords Theido and Ronsard are here. You asked me to fetch you as soon as they came. They are waiting in the hall”