In the Hall of the Dragon King

by Stephen Lawhead

  Theido led the party to the center of the bowl and there waited. Quentin could not imagine why they had come here or who had returned Theido’s signal, for obviously, signal it was. He had not long to wait for answers to his questions. As he sat scanning the limited horizon of the bowl, he noticed nothing. And then, even as he watched, he perceived that the bushes themselves were alive—each one a man outfitted with a cunning camouflage of branches and twigs affixed to his back and shoulders. Quentin watched fascinated as these walking shrubs rustled to their feet and came forward. There were sixteen in all. Their leader seemed to be a large man with a hat of dry leaves pulled low over his face. He approached easily and came to stand directly in front of Theido, bowing low and saying, “Good evening to you, Sir Hawk. Your signal stirs us out of a long winter’s nap. But we are ever ready to serve you and yours whatever the time or need may be. How can we help you?”

  “You are most gracious, Voss. I wish only to speak to you now, and then you shall all return to your cozy cave.” The man bowed again, and this time Quentin saw his broad, good-natured face full in the moonlight that filled the hollow, reflecting off the sparkling snow. Voss waved his men closer, and instantly the riders were surrounded by an odd assortment of heads, arms, and branches. Each man carried a short sword and a longbow. Quentin saw no arrows but guessed them concealed in the camouflage.

  “I was taken prisoner this morning by men under Jaspin’s orders.”

  “The dog!” spat Voss. The ring of bushmen murmured menacingly. Quentin got the impression that if Jaspin or any of his fifty men had been within bowshot right now, they would be wearing feathers. “How was the deed accomplished?”

  “I do not know. But this is a matter of small importance. I am free now because of the quick thinking of my friends here.” Theido nodded to Quentin and Alinea.

  The bushmen bowed together at this revelation, and Voss spoke for all of them, pledging, “Pelgrin will never hold ill for you while any of us are awake and breathing. A whistle thus”—he whistled—“will bring help and rescue from man or beast. And if food and shelter is your lack, you have bed and board with us as long as bellies need meat and eyes sleep.”

  “We accept your most generous pledge, kind ranger,” said the queen. “You may be certain that if ever I am in such need, I will summon you at your word.”

  “Please,” interrupted Theido, “we will trouble you no further tonight but to say that we go directly to the cottage of the holy hermit, Durwin. Most likely we will be followed—if we are not pursued even now. I would require a watch to be placed upon our path, and a fair warning to be given when any of the prince’s men enter these woods.”

  “That is easily said,” replied the woodsman, nodding to several of his companions, who left at once, melting into the forest silently as shadows, “and done. Is there nothing else?”

  “I may have need to put your craft to the test, but not yet, I think. We will take our leave and thank you now for your help. I may not have time to thank you later.”

  “No thanks necessary,” replied Voss with a wide smile. His eyes glittered, and his teeth shone white in the dark. “We are only too glad to repay in kind what has oft been given us. Away with you!” he shouted suddenly, slapping the horses on the neck. “You may still dream before dawn.”

  Theido saluted the stocky woodsman and bowed to the circle of men gathered about them. They returned his salute, raising their longbows high in the air and saying, “May Ariel guide you!” Three men jumped forward and seized the reins of the horses and led them off into the forest. Quentin looked back over his shoulder to where Voss and the rest still watched after them. He waved, and the bushmen’s leader waved back. Quentin watched until they were removed from sight by the forest closing once more around them.

  11

  Quentin awoke to the smell of roasting meat seasoned with pungent spices. The aroma teased him, bringing water to his mouth and an ache to his empty stomach. It seemed like a month since he had last eaten.

  His eyelids were heavy as bobs of lead, and he had not the strength to open them. So he lay in a state of suspended animation, awake but unmoving, dragging his scattered thoughts together and willing his reluctant limbs to move—and only half succeeding in either case.

  At last, overcome by hunger and coaxed upright by the pleasant odors wafting over him, he pushed away his cloak and gleaned the straw from his hair.

  He heard voices and—struggling to his feet out of the dry, straw-filled corner that had served for his bed—approached the hermit’s long table, where Durwin and Theido mumbled together.

  “… Then we must use every caution. Any misstep would prove fatal. So much is at stake.” Quentin heard this ominous pronouncement as he drew nearer the table. Durwin was speaking. “We must arm ourselves accordingly—I see no other alternative.”

  “No,” replied Theido softly, yet his voice carried a stern objection. “I cannot ask such a thing of you. There must be another way.”

  Just then Quentin reached the table and the two men cut short their conversation and greeted him heartily. “Durwin, our young acolyte saved my life yesterday. Did I tell you?” Theido said, raising a cup of steaming liquid to Quentin as Durwin hurried to place a bowl of hot porridge and bread before him.

  “Yes, you have told me only three hundred times this morning, but I’ll gladly hear it again,” replied the hermit.

  Theido recounted in glowing terms all that had taken place the last morning, from the capture to the daring escape and the moonlit ride. “Had it not been for my young friend’s disobedience of my orders, I would be food for the owls today.”

  “Disobedience? When did I disobey you?” Quentin croaked.

  “You were instructed to ride back to Durwin here if I came to harm or if our plans miscarried.”

  Quentin remembered the order; it had been scared right out of his head in the confusion and fright of the ambush. And later he had chanced upon a better plan.

  “Quentin,” continued Theido, “you stand absolved of any wrong. But I must stress this to you now: you are never to disobey my orders again. Follow them no matter what may seem to you the outcome. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Quentin answered uncertainly. He had only minutes before been praised for his bravery and pluck. Now he felt severely reprimanded.

  “Tut,” said Durwin. “Don’t be so strong-headed, Theido. I think the god intervened with a command of his own. I tell you the god has a hand on this one.” The holy hermit nodded approvingly to Quentin, who was glad for this affirmation.

  “I will obey in all details,” said Quentin. He sat down on the bench and began tearing the bread to pieces and stirring the pieces into the steaming porridge. “Now may I ask something that I have been wondering?”

  “Ask away; there shall be no secrets between us.”

  “Why is it men call you the Hawk?”

  “It comes from my family’s blazon—the hunting falcon. I am known to the woodsmen and others hereabouts as the Hawk—they make me out to be an outlaw like themselves.” He shrugged. “It suits them and allows me the freedom to go where another name might hinder.” He paused and then added in a lighter tone, “My friends, as always, know me as Theido.”

  “And those who know the name never want a truer friend.” The voice was the queen’s; she now stood directly behind Quentin. She had awakened to the sound of their voices and had come silently to the table. Durwin, appearing somewhat flustered, hurried to offer the best seat at the table, his own.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, bowing from the waist, “I am honored to have you in this humble house.”

  “Your kindness is appreciated,” she said, sliding into the offered chair. “But from now on I am only Alinea—I have put off my crown and am no queen until my king returns to claim his throne and so redeems my own. So please, good hermit, make no fuss for my sake.”

  “As you wish, Alinea,” replied Durwin smoothly. He had a gift for meeting people high or low a
nd making them feel honored and welcome in his presence. Quentin had felt it from the first. “Now no more talking until we have all broken fast together.”

  Prince Jaspin stormed red-eyed through the corridors of the ancient castle. He had not slept the night and had just been informed that the queen was abed with an illness and would see no one, nor receive messages. His opportunity to question her was foiled. The foul prince was furious.

  During the night he had sent word to as many of his nobles as were within reach to meet at midday to hear a plan he had been contemplating for some time. His anger at losing his prisoner had caused him to implement this new scheme without further delay.

  He strode into the council chambers, his sharp face flushed with anger and exhaustion. Various knights and nobles, more than a score altogether, stood beneath their banners and standards awaiting his arrival. Many showed signs of having ridden hard and long to get there at the appointed time.

  “My esteemed lords, please be seated. We have much to discuss.” All bowed to him as he waved them to chairs at a long table. He indicated a chair at his right for Sir Bran and one at his left for the brawny Sir Grenett. Nearby sat a noble with sly, narrow eyes and a puckered, pouting mouth, a man of vast holdings and extraordinary wealth who was determined to be the new king’s chief minister. His name was Ontescue, a name not well liked by the helots who worked his lands and bore the brunt of his expensive ambitions.

  “My lord, you are looking ill-possessed this morning. Your sleep was not troubled, I hope.” He had guessed the prince was looking for an opportunity to launch into a retelling of his latest agitation. He wanted to provide a ready ear.

  “It is true; I have had no sleep this night past. But that is a matter for another time.” The prince dismissed his chance to confide his troubles, pressing on to a subject of more immediate import. “Gentlemen all,” he called, “your presence gratifies me. As we all know too well, our kingdom has been for some time without a king, being governed in his absence by the Council of Regents. I have uncovered evidence that certain nobles of that body have been aiding the outlaws in their campaign of robbery and defiance throughout the forests of this land.

  “Only yesterday my men arrested the prince of these outlaws—I had him secured within these walls until he should speak out against those of his band and other outlaw leaders with whom he is intimately acquainted.

  “My aim is to rid the wood and hills of these preying wolves, and so give back the roads to the people and to commerce. However, before I could myself set eyes upon this bandit leader, he was sprung to freedom by companions high in rank and title. I have not apprehended the men who loosed this villain, but I know now who put them up to it.” He paused, and all eyes and ears were his. “Lord Weldon and Lord Larcott!”

  At once a cry rang out. “It cannot be!” Lord Larcott, slamming his fist upon the table, was on his feet, protesting his innocence. Lord Weldon sat stunned in his chair. The other knights and nobles drowned Larcott’s cries with their own demands for justice.

  Prince Jaspin held up a hand and ordered silence. “You, as noble lords of this kingdom, will have your chance to answer the charges brought against you. For now, and until such time as your crimes shall be heard, you will deliver yourselves to the tower to be there confined.” With a nod of his head, Prince Jaspin signaled four armed guards to escort the Lords Weldon and Larcott to the dungeon. The furor continued along the meeting table as the two unlucky men were seized where they sat and marched out under the rough handling of the guards.

  Lord Larcott could be heard screaming, “By Zoar, you’ll pay for this outrage! I’ll see your head black on the spike!” Lord Weldon went quietly with a look of deepest grief and unrelenting sorrow upon his gray face. Those who saw his look quickly glanced away; his eyes seemed to burn into the soul of any who accused him.

  When they had gone and order was restored, Prince Jaspin rushed to the heart of his plan: filling the two newly vacant chairs on the Council of Regents. “Noble men, as you are aware, the people grow daily more dependent upon strong leadership to maintain order in the land. I propose we now elect two new members to the council, and do so without delay.”

  “Hear! Hear!” the nobles in Jaspin’s sway shouted, delighted with such a display of efficient and farsighted leadership. When once more the din had died, a figure stood at his place at the table. “I cannot accede to such a move,” said Lord Holben, a knight of no small renown. He was Larcott’s friend and one who had been chosen by King Eskevar to sit at council. “For to elect new members to this council would be to declare the guilt of the previous members. There have been no writs of justice presented and no decrees posted. As it involves nobility, this is a high matter and as such can only be judged by the king himself upon his return.” With that Lord Holben sat down.

  “He is right,” said some. Others objected. “It cannot wait!” The chamber once again rang with the shouts of contending voices until Ontescue held up his hands and succeeded in reducing the tumult to silence.

  “Surely the prince has only the best interests of the realm at heart. Therefore, I will abide by Prince Jaspin’s decision in this matter,” said Ontescue. He nodded with a sly smile toward the prince.

  “I defer as well,” said Sir Bran. He was aided in his opinion by Sir Grenett, who then scowled down the length of the table, daring any to defy him. Most, willingly or with reluctance, came at length to their side, opposed only by Lord Holben and several of his neighbors who cared not for Jaspin.

  “I maintain the king’s justice in this matter. No further moves may be taken against those charged with this crime,” Holben declared. “Here it rests until the king shall return.”

  “Very well,” snapped Jaspin irritably. “The matter shall go no further at present. However, it is equally a breach of the king’s law to leave an empty chair at the Council of Regents. Two members must fill those vacancies. Since we are all assembled here now, I see no reason we should not proceed to elect new regents.”

  Lord Holben started to his feet to make some objection but was shouted down by Jaspin’s minions.

  “Very well,” continued Jaspin. “Since it pleases this body, I propose to put forth the names of Sir Bran and Sir Grenett for your commendation.”

  “I commend them,” said Ontescue. His words were echoed time and again as the vote proceeded around the table, man by man. Nearly everyone commended the prince’s choice heartily; only a few from Lord Holben’s party abstained. Only Lord Holben himself dared to go against the vote.

  “Sir Grenett and Sir Bran”—Prince Jaspin beamed—“you are now regents of the realm. You will be sworn to your office within the fortnight, as is required by king’s law,” he said snidely, bowing to Holben, who clenched his fists in his lap. “How say you, bold knights? Do you accept this charge placed upon you by your peers?”

  “We do,” they answered.

  Just then there was a commotion in the hall. Amid angry vows, fierce gestures, and dark, threatening looks, Lord Holben and his party stalked out of the council chamber in a great show of protest. The smile that had only moments before curled the corners of Prince Jaspin’s fleshy lips now faded slowly.

  Other nobles and knights now took their leave and began filing out of the chamber, attended by their pages and standard bearers, each with the banner and device of his lord. Prince Jaspin rose and called Ontescue to him. “Some of the voices were not loud enough in their approval of my new regents. Go to them and smooth any uncertainty with whatever means seems best to you. I will have these men, as many as can be won with favors, on my side.”

  “Of course, my lord. You, as always, know what is best. Your cause shall not suffer for want of generosity at my hands. I will bring them around,” the would-be chancellor declared. Already his shrewd eyes were stealing after the nobles as he calculated the price of fealty for one and then another.

  “Good,” said the prince. “Have I told you that I am considering giving you Crandall? No? ’Tis tr
ue. It only needs a slight demonstration of your loyalty to secure that estate—one of the largest in the realm, I am told.”

  “I am flattered, my lord.”

  “Go now and bring me word of your success as soon as may be. Other matters now beg my attention. Go.”

  Ontescue hurried after the departing lords, engaging each one in private conversation and pressing upon them promises, gold, and royal pledges of the prince’s undying loyalty to them, greasing the machinery of state with warm words and lofty indulgences.

  Prince Jaspin hurried out of the council room by a side door and went directly to his apartment, where five men waited in his anteroom.

  “The knaves! The fools!” he fumed as he bustled along. “They will see how Jaspin deals with troublemakers! Ah, but first to loose the Harriers upon that blasted Hawk and his miserable friends.”

  12

  The need is great—already it may be too late. If there were another way, or a lesser cost, I would not insist. But there—the choice is mine, and I say we must go to Dekra.” The voice was Durwin’s, and from what Quentin could tell, the discussion, which had started again as soon as the breakfast table had been cleared, was a continuation of the one he had interrupted earlier. He lazed in a patch of warm sunlight, half awake, sitting on the floor under a thick-glazed window that the low winter sun filled with streaming yellow light. Quentin basked in the light and let the warmth seep into his bones.

  “No,” said Theido, objecting once again—and with, what seemed to Quentin, a god’s own obstinance. “We will find another way. We have time yet, and we do not know what Jaspin plans.”

  “Precisely! We do not know what Jaspin plans, but it is certain to be nasty and cruel. Most likely his malice is already afoot. But what of that? He only wants a crown. Nimrood will not be so easily satisfied—he wants a world! We must go to Dekra.”

  Who or what Dekra was, Quentin did not know. But the conversation had been going on so long he had lost interest in it and had retreated into the background to doze. The queen still sat at the table with the two men, but it had been a long time since she had had occasion to speak. Quentin knew that nothing would be settled until this impasse between the two men was resolved.