The sword and the flame dk-3

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Ho! Stop!” said the rider. “What have you there?”

  Pym raised frightened eyes. His mouth worked the air, but his voice was some time in coming. “N-nothing, sir,” he managed to sputter at last, his features convulsing in anguish.

  “Hold, peasant! If you knew who it was that addressed you, you would do well to keep an honest tongue in your head.”

  The tinker lowered his eyes and said nothing; he brought the bundled sword behind his back, away from the prying eyes of the lord before him.

  At that moment Pym became aware of a sound behind him. The other riders, having seen one of their party stopped in the road, had come back to discover what the trouble was. All five of them rode up behind Pym. “What is the trouble, Ameronis?” asked one of the newcomers, eyeing Pym in his shabby clothes suspiciously.

  “This rascal darted out in front of me and nearly threw me from the saddle,” replied the quarrelsome Ameronis.

  “I am certain he meant no harm,” said Lord Edfrith-the one who had previously nodded to Pym as he rode by. “I noticed him on the stump here a moment ago. Leave him, and let us be off.” The nobleman made a move as if to ride away, but none of his friends followed.

  ‘What are you holding there?” asked Ameronis again, his voice cold and menacing. “I will see it before I ride hence.”

  Pym glanced at the ring of faces around him, his heart leaping to his throat. “I-I… nothing, my lord.” He pulled the sword to him. “I am a poor man. A tinker. Please let me go.”

  “Let him be, Ameronis,” said the one who had spoken before. “He has nothing to interest us.”

  “Nevertheless,” roared Ameronis, “I will see it! If it is nothing, let him show me.” His piercing eyes fell upon Pym with keen determination. “But,” he continued slyly, “if that is a sword he holds wrapped in those rags, I mean to find out where this tinker came by it.”

  This brought a murmur from the others. “Well? said Lord Gorloic. “Show us, then, for I too would see it.”

  “I discern the shape of a weapon beneath those rags,” added another-this was Lord Lupollen, Ameronis’s closest friend. “Show us, tinker; it is our right.”

  “No! wailed Pym helplessly. “I cannot!” His black dog flattened her ears and growled. One of the horses stamped the ground and snorted.

  “Give it to me!” demanded Ameronis, thrusting out his hand suddenly.

  Pym clutched his prize to his chest and refused to give it up.

  “Come,” said Lord Edfrith, “let us be about our own business.”

  “Go!” shouted Lupollen. “We do not need you. But as this interests me, I will stay to see it through.”

  Edfrith pulled his reins and his mount backed from the group, wheeled, and galloped away. “I will have nothing more to do with this ill-advised plan,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “Please, sir. I have done nothing,” pleaded Pym, sweat dripping down his neck, staining his shirt. “Let we ‘uns go in peace. I beg you, ple-”

  “Silence, peasant! Shut your mouth!” With that, Ameronis leaned down from his saddle and grabbed the bundle.

  Terrified, Pym hung on and was pulled off his feet. Lord Ameronis struck him a blow across the face with his studded glove, raised his foot from the stirrup, and kicked the tinker in the stomach. Pym released the sword and fell writhing to the ground. Tip barked and snapped at her master’s attacker.

  Ameronis tore at the rag coverings, shreds of cloth falling from his hands. “No!” cried Pym, rolling up to his feet once more. “Please!” He looked to the other noblemen for help and saw their cool, impassive faces. They were with Ameronis. “I beg you, sir! Give it back!” He lurched for the blade, but was not quick enough. The haughty Ameronis lashed out with his booted foot, caught the tinker full on the jaw, and sent him sprawling backward in the dust.

  “I am in your debt, tinker,” crowed Ameronis, pulling the last of the tatters aside. “You have delivered the prize into my hand!” He raised the sword high. “And also the crown!”

  “By all the gods!” gasped the noblemen, looking on. “It is Zhaligkeer, the Shining One!”

  “For this service I will give you a reward, tinker,” said Ameronis, his eyes shining with the light of his greed. “What do you think of that?”

  Pym stared in horror at the sword in the usurper’s hand and said nothing.

  “I will grant you your worthless life,” said Ameronis, laughing. His lords laughed too, nervously, still amazed that the sword had come to them. “For surely you have stolen this sword, tinker,” continued the lord, lofting the sword and swinging it, enjoying its cold, resilient strength in his hand, the blade so finely crafted that it seemed alive.

  “Now get up on your feet, scum,” he ordered.

  Pym, his mouth bleeding and the skin along his jaw swelling an ugly violet-red, dragged himself to his feet.

  Ameronis flicked the point of the Shining One at the tinker’s throat. “You will tell no one of this, tinker, do you hear me? I have ears everywhere, and if you tell I will know about it and I will have your head on a spike over the gate of my castle. Do you understand?”

  Pym felt the cold kiss of the sharp blade against his flesh. He knew the ambitious Lord Ameronis would not hesitate to kill him, and within his heart he burned with rage and shame: he had let them take the King’s sword. What could he do? How could he prevent them?

  “Ye might as well kill me now,” said Pym sullenly. “For I will not keep quiet about this.” Now that the words were said he stood by them. “Yes, we ‘uns mean to go to the King straightaway and tell him as what’s happened.”

  “You care so little for your life then, tinker?”

  “I care so much fer me King,” replied Pym. “It be his sword ye hold there as ye well know. We ‘uns were taking it to him-it been lost, ye see.”

  “I warn you for the last time,” Ameronis menaced. He raised the sword to strike. Tip growled savagely and barked at her master’s attacker.

  Pym stood his ground and closed his eyes. If it was to be his last moment…very well, let it be in the service of his King. He waited for the sound of the blade singing through the air.

  Instead he heard a shout-far-off and high-pitched.

  “Wait!” said one of the others. “Someone is coming!”

  When a sound of hooves came thumping up behind them, Ameronis cursed and said, “I will finish with this one even so!”

  “Do not be a fool!” said Lupollen, his voice tense. “We have what we. want; let us leave the field clean.”

  Pym opened his eyes a peep and saw the violent lord’s face black with rage, still towering above him, the sword still raised in his hand. The hooves pounded closer, and another shout reached them.

  Ameronis glanced up, then hovered for a moment in indecision.

  “Come!” urged Lupollen, his horse wheeling around. The others turned their mounts and started away.

  “The gods bear witness,” muttered Ameronis thickly, “blind luck has saved you, tinker. But if ever we meet again, your life is forfeit.” With that he spurred his charger forward, directly at Pym, who jumped to the side. He was not quick enough, and Ameronis swung the sword hilt down on his skull.

  The heavens darkened, stars swung from their courses, and Pym collapsed in the road.

  THIRTY-NINE

  RENNY, RIDING the Prince’s brown pony, jogged along the well-used track leading to Askelon. He sat erect in the saddle, pretending to be a knight returning to the realm from quests and adventures in faraway lands. He fancied himself returning to the King’s service after a long absence to find, his name on the lips of his countrymen and peers, his deeds sung in halls great and small throughout the kingdom.

  Yes, to be such a knight, he thought, would be any man’s greatest dream. He would give his life for it-for one hour in the armor of a knight in the saddle of a genuine warhorse. Tarky trotted easily along, Askelon Castle showing misty in the distance over green fields. The world seemed calm and lazy in the wa
rmth of the day, and Renny despaired of finding any adventure on the way, for with every step the castle and its city drew nearer.

  Then, as horse and rider reached the bottom of a hill and started up the opposite side, they met another rider galloping fast the other way. The stranger passed by them in a flurry of hooves, his short cloak blowing out behind him, the charger’s tail streaming. He did not so much as glance in the boy’s direction, but thundered by, eyes ahead and hard.

  “That’d be a nobleman most like,” said Renny to his mount. “An’ one seeing something by the look of it. Maybe highwaymen!”

  At once his young head was filled with images of a fierce conflict with a band of ruthless robbers in which he, Sir Renny, bested the whole pack and sent the brigands scrambling back into the Wilderlands where the cowards belonged.

  Enticed by such impossible heroics, Renny urged the brown pony to a faster pace as they climbed the hill. Then as they reached the crest and the road stretched out before them once more, Renny saw the scene he had just imagined: a group of brigands menacing a helpless traveler. The only difference he could see was that the highwaymen were on horseback and the poor traveler afoot. He loosed a wild yelp, kicked his heels into Tarky’s flanks, and galloped to the rescue, never thinking that he had no weapon and would not have known how to use one if he had it. Nevertheless, Renny dashed for the thick of the fray with visions of glory dancing before him.

  It was about this time that Lord Ameronis and his friends heard the young rescuer approaching. Renny saw a sword lifted up about to strike and gave vent to another war whoop, urging Tarky to greater speed as they came flying down the hill, elbows flapping, legs akimbo.

  Here it was that the lords prevailed upon their leader to spare the tinker and to make clean their retreat with the King’s sword. They all turned at once and galloped toward Renny, who swallowed hard, put his head down, and charged into them.

  At the precise moment of collision, Renny squeezed shut his eyes. He felt the air buffet him as the riders swept by, and then heard the sound of their retreat behind him. When he opened his eyes again he was alone in the road, the highwaymen sprinting away and disappearing over the hill. Ahead of him, the wayfarer lay in a heap at the side of the road. Renny clattered to a halt, threw himself from the saddle, and dove to the man’s aid, rolling him over in the dust. Blood ran freely from the cut on his mouth and a raw bruise welted on his jaw. Tip licked her master’s face, cleaning away some of the dust and blood.

  Pym’s eyelids fluttered open weakly. “Ohh…” he moaned.

  “Good sir, are ‘ee alive?” asked Renny, eyes wide as pot lids.

  “Ohh… me head. Ow! They’ve kilt me good,” he said, struggling to get up.

  “Easy there,” said Renny, raising him to a sitting position. “I come to help ‘ee.”

  Pym, eyes watering from the throbbing in his head, squinted at his young savior. “Who are ye?”

  “Renny, sir,” he replied as if the name should have preceded him and would explain all. “I came upon ‘ee here beset by brigands.”

  “Eh?” Pym turned his head and saw that his attackers were indeed vanished. “Ye saved my life! They meant to carve me to a treat. Yes, sir. Ye saved me, young master! Thankee, oh thankee!”

  Renny glowed with this admission. Yes, he had saved the man’s life, just as a knight would have done. He had faced a band of cutthroats and, unarmed, routed them and sent them fleeing for the Wilderlands to escape his justice. “Who were they?” he asked seriously.

  “Oh, a bad lot, young master. A bad lot they were-all of them evil. They were going to put me head on a spike, they were. Yes. I stood a dead man ‘til ye came a runnin’. Oh, thankee.”

  “Did they steal anything?”

  At this the tinker began to tremble. “Ohh! They took the sword!”

  “‘Er sword?”

  “Not mine. No, nivver mine! Oh, no. The King’s sword! They took it-one called Ameronis; he’s the very one as did it. He wanted to carve me up and put me poor head on a spike.”

  “Ameronis? Lord Ameronis? I have heard tell of him.”

  “A bad one. Oh, yes. Very bad.”

  Renny thought for a moment. “How could ‘ee have the King’s sword?” he asked, scratching his head. “ ‘Ee mean the Shining One itself?”

  “None other.” Pym nodded solemnly. “We ‘uns found it in the road a few days ago. Didn’t know it was the Shining One then and hid it yet, hid it in a tree. We ‘uns went back fer to fetch it early this morn and were bringing it back fer the King. He needs it something powerful.”

  Renny studied the situation carefully, weighing what the man had told him. “Well,” he said at length, “there’s nothing for it but to ride straightaway to the King and tell him what happened.”

  “I agree.” Pym rose unsteadily to his feet, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “Can ‘ee ride? The pony is sturdy, and we’re not terrible far from the castle.”

  “I think so,” nodded Pym, and then squeezed his eyes shut with pain. “Oww! He caught me a good ‘un then, he did. That ‘un I'd like to repay.”

  With Renny’s help Pym clambered into the saddle, then let down a hand to hoist the boy up behind him. They swayed uncertainly and started off, Tarky bending his head low with the extra weight, but making surefootedly for Askelon.

  The shadows of the high curtain battlements stretched across the inner ward yard by the time Theido and Ronsard had assembled their men to begin searching for the sword. All afternoon the ward yard had been in turmoil as knights and men at arms were outfitted for a search such as Mensandor had never seen. Ronsard spared no one from the task who could not serve better in some other way, and horses were saddled and provisions laid in for many days on the trail

  “This is war,” said Ronsard to Hagin, when the warder protested the plundering of his stores. “If we fail, the Dragon King falls. I see no reason to hold back a reserve-we would only be inviting our own defeat”

  “Do not speak of defeat,” replied Theido, overhearing. “It will be difficult enough as it is. War you said? Worse than war-our foe is time, and time wins all in the end.”

  “Not this battle,” replied Ronsard grimly. “I mean to win this one.”

  Just then a gateman came running up, saluted Hagin, and blurted out a message. “Warder, sir, there’s someone at the gate demanding to see the King. I told them the King sees no-one but they insisted. I didn’t like to trouble you, but they will not go away.”

  “What do they want?”

  “They will not say, sir.”

  “Then send them packing,” ordered Hagin, “with the edge of your sword, man.”

  Theido and Ronsard, about to turn away, heard the gateman say, “There’s two of them on one brown pony, and-”

  Ronsard spun around. “A brown pony?” His senses prickled.

  “What is it, my lord?” asked Hagin.

  “Bring them,” ordered Ronsard. “And the pony. At once.”

  The gateman dipped his head and ran off to fetch the visitors as instructed. “You have a reason for this, I’ll warrant?” said Theido. Hagin looked on quizzically.

  “It may be nothing,” replied Ronsard. “But I seem to remember someone saying that the Prince rode a brown pony the day of the hunt”

  “Aye, he did. It was his favorite,” offered Hagin. “What of it? There must be dozens of brown ponies in the region hereabouts.”

  “As you say, but two do not ride unless there is some urgency, and they do not arrive at the castle with demands for the King.”

  “I see what you mean,” said Theido. “But do you think this can possibly have anything to do with us?”

  “That we will quickly discover, I think.” He looked across the yard where the gatekeeper approached leading a pony; two hesitant figures trailed behind.

  In a moment the gateman had brought the visitors-a thin gangly boy and a slump-shouldered man-and their mount to stand before the knights and the warder. “Her
e they are, sirs. As you requested.”

  “Tinker, we meet again,” said Ronsard. “Hagin, would you examine the horse? I think some of us may know this animal.”

  “We ‘uns did not steal it, yer lordship,” replied Pym. “But how do ye know me?”

  “I was the wretch whose head was broken at the Gray Goose the night the King’s temple was pulled down.”

  Pym’s eyes opened wider in recognition; he nodded knowingly. “Same as what happened to me not three hours ago.”

  “This is the Prince’s mount and no doubt.” Hagin patted the pony’s neck. “That’s the Prince’s saddle and tack. The animal came from the King’s stables-that is a fair certainty. If you like, I will call the stablemaster. He would know better than anyone else.”

  “That will not be necessary,” said Ronsard. He looked at the two before him. “Well? You had better tell us all about it.”

  “I found him, sir,” said Renny in a small, awed voice. Here he was in the inner ward yard of Askelon Castle where knights and horses, squires and men-at-arms hurried to ready themselves as for battle; he could hardly take it all in. “He came into our field below the forest. I caught him.”

  “The pony?” Ronsard smiled; light twinkled in his eyes. “I see. And then what did you do?”

  Before the boy could answer, Pym broke in. “I’ll tell ye what he did. He saved my life, that’s what he did. We’uns-”

  “You and the boy?”

  “Me and Tip, sir,” said Pym, motioning to the dog.

  “I see. Go on.”

  “We ‘uns were bound fer Askelon and were set upon by highwaymen and brigands-leastwise I thought they were highwaymen and brigands, I did.”

  “Highwaymen?” asked Theido. “In this part of Mensandor?”

  Pym nodded vigorously. “They caught me and took the sword.”

  “They took your sword?” asked Ronsard. “When does a tinker have need to carry a sword?”

  “Not my sword, yer lordship,” explained Pym. “The King’s sword!”