In the Hall of the Dragon King

by Stephen Lawhead

  Durwin had visited the city on several occasions, staying once for over three years. He had seen and learned much in the ruins and had himself helped in the restoration of one of the main buildings—a temple to the god of the Ariga. A lone god with no name.

  “Do you think I will be strong enough to leave soon?” asked Quentin when they had reached the lower floor. They entered a large area that had been partitioned off into smaller rooms but which retained an atmosphere of light and openness in what would have been a dark, solid basement in any structure he had ever encountered. Quentin, feeling winded from his walk down so many stairs, sat on a three-legged stool while Mollena stirred herself in another corner of the room. Toli, apparently, had darted off on another of his ceaseless errands.

  “Leave soon? That is up to you. You can leave when you feel you must. Or you can stay as long as you wish,” Mollena answered finally. Quentin looked at the old woman’s gray hair and wrinkled, stooped appearance. Anywhere else the woman would have been regarded as one of Orphe’s daughters. But here she was as much a part of the natural surroundings as the strange architecture he saw and the exotic murals that lined the walls of nearly every building. And there was something in her spirit that made her seem as young and alive as any maid he had ever seen (although for Quentin, those were few indeed).

  Quentin always had the impression that Mollena was refraining from telling him too much, that she knew more than she would allow him to hear. And not only Mollena—all the others he had met in the past few days spoke in the same cryptic way.

  “Would you teach me something?” he asked after watching her busy herself with preparing some small morsel for him. She turned to eye him with a sideward glance, her head held to one side as if she was weighing her decision.

  “There are a few things I might teach you, though there are others far more learned than I. What would you like to learn?” she asked.

  “I do not know—I mean … I would not know where to start. Tell me what you think I should know of this place, of the world.”

  “What I think does not matter a great deal. You must choose yourself how you will,” Mollena answered, setting a small table before him that contained a bowl of dried fruit and a cup with a warm yellow liquid. “Eat now. Regain your strength. Consider what will help you accomplish your purpose, and I will teach you.”

  Quentin ate and did as she suggested, but at the end of his meal, he was no closer to an answer to his own question.

  “It’s no use,” he announced, pushing the bowl away from him and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I do not know enough about this place or its people to decide what would serve me best to learn.”

  “Well spoken,” said the old woman with a warm smile. “That is the first step toward knowledge. Come. I will guide you through the city, and we will find the answers you seek.”

  Toli appeared at the doorway just as they made to leave, so the three started off together.

  A firm friendship had grown up between Quentin and the quiet Jher, who seemed to hold his friend in reverential awe as someone who possessed strong mystical powers. Anyone who could survive the poisoned talons of a Harrier’s hawk qualified as a deity in Toli’s opinion. He seemed determined to serve Quentin as bodyguard and cupbearer, and he made a point of insisting upon learning Quentin’s tongue so that he might know how to serve his master more efficiently.

  Quentin, for his part, considered Toli’s quick thinking and lightning reflexes in pulling him to the ground on that black night to be the only reason he still walked among the living. The hawk had barely scratched his upper arm with its hollow, poison-filled metal talons—the bird was trained to attack the throat.

  So out of gratitude Quentin busied himself with teaching Toli and taking up the tasks of learning the gentle Jher’s lilting speech. He was surprised to find that after the rigors of the temple training in the official temple code language, the Jher tongue was not so obscure as he had feared. There was only a handful of basic sounds, which were combined to form more complex words and sentences.

  With steady work and patience, Quentin and Toli began to eke out a method of communication with each other.

  The old woman led them along wide, tree-lined avenues, which in another day Quentin imagined would have been jammed with carts and people bustling to and fro, buying and selling. He looked at tall buildings of ingenious design—lofty towers that rose with effortless grace. And although they used the same stone Askelon’s builders had later used, Dekra’s architects did very different things with it. Their skill was such that even the most solid, massive structure appeared airy and light, well proportioned and elegant. A city designed by poets.

  Dekra’s only temple sat in the center of the city, and all lines focused upon this center. The streets ran in concentric rings and intersecting angles from the temple, which was large enough to accommodate all inhabitants of the city with ease.

  It was toward the temple that Mollena directed them.

  Quentin walked through the quiet streets, some of them more closely restored than others, in a kind of waking dream. The city of the vanished race was an exotic, alien place—itself a city of dreams. He stared in awe around him, gazing in wonder at the strangeness of the place. He wondered what the people themselves had been like.

  “What happened to the people?”

  “No one knows. Oh, we find things from time to time, and there are many theories among us, but the answer to our most perplexing question remains a mystery.

  “But this we know: they left all together and all at once, very quickly. We have found pots still on the ashes of the fire that burned under them, with the charred remains of the meal which was being prepared still untouched. We have found, in the merchant quarters, money boxes left open and the contents inside and undisturbed. Once we found a table set with writing instruments and the fragmented remains of a letter in composition—the pen laid aside in midword, as if the writer had been called away suddenly and unexpectedly, never to return.”

  The old woman stopped and looked around; her face revealed an excitement no less aroused than Quentin’s own. “The answer is here, within these buildings and walls. Someday we will find it.”

  Quentin was silent as they continued their easy stroll. After a little time he ventured another question. “What were the people like, Mollena? Were they very different from us?”

  “Not so much in appearance, maybe, though they were taller and stronger than our people are. That we know from the many murals which abound in every house and public building. Among them were many artists and writers of surpassing skill.

  “One of the first buildings to be restored was the library of Dekra, a vast collection of writings. Many of the scrolls were in readable condition still; many others have been preserved and restored, though it is a long and often frustrating process. But we have learned how to read their words, and many Curatak engage themselves fully toward learning the teachings of the ancient scholars. What we have read reveals a wise and benevolent race of high intelligence; their teachings are not easy to understand, but we have learned much. Much more remains to be discovered.”

  The three were moving toward the temple along one of the straight, bisecting streets. As Quentin listened to the old woman, he watched in fascination as the temple grew larger with their approach. The holy place rose majestically over the tops of the trees surrounding it—all clean lines and pinnacles pointing heavenward.

  “Who were they?” Quentin asked, more to himself than to Mollena, experiencing a growing sense of suppressed excitement, mingled inexplicably with a grief he could not place, as if someone he knew did not exist might yet appear at any moment.

  “Who were they?” repeated Mollena as the three stepped onto the broad plaza surrounding the soaring sanctuary. “They called themselves the Ariga—children of the god.”

  “And who was their god?” Quentin asked. “Do we know him?”

  “Many know him, but by no name. The god of the Ari
ga has no name. He is one, nameless and supreme. Their holy writings sometimes use the words Whist Orren, or Most High, and Perun Nim Gadre, or King of the Gods. Most often they called him Dekron—the One, or the One Holy. But his name, if he has one, is never written.”

  Without another word Mollena led them inside the great temple. Quentin saw Curatak moving quietly about their work within the temple. One section of the west wall, opposite them, had given way. Scaffolding was erected around the damaged portion, and workmen were painstakingly laboring with the rebuilding. All moved about their tasks with great reverence, it seemed to Quentin.

  “We Curatak,” explained Mollena, “have ourselves become Ariga in that we worship the nameless god as our own.”When she saw Quentin’s questioning glance, she continued. “We believe, as did the vanished ones, that their god has many children.”

  “Where did the priests stay?” asked Quentin, looking around. Most of the inner temple was given over to a vast open area, raised at one end by a dais, which was reached by stone steps ringing its circumference. He saw no place where priests could live, unless their chambers lay underground somewhere.

  “There were no priests—that is, not the way you think of priests. The Ariga approached the god alone, though they had readers—men who had studied the holy texts extensively, who spoke to them when they assembled, reminding them of the various tenets of their religion. But no priests interposed for the people.”

  They turned to leave then, and when they had returned outside once more, Quentin was stuck by a thought suddenly remembered, a thought he had often wondered and had meant to ask Durwin along their journey to the ruined city.

  “Mollena, why was Theido frightened of coming here? Why did he wish Durwin to stay away?”

  The old woman wrinkled a squint upon him. “Who told you he was afraid?”

  “I heard them talking about it. Durwin said from the beginning that we should come; Theido was against it. Then something happened—Trenn came with word that the Harriers were after us—and Theido relented. What was he afraid of ?”

  “That is not for me to say, but you may ask Yeseph, one of our leaders. He may give you an answer to your question, for I cannot.”

  Again a cryptic reply, thought Quentin. What was it these Curatak were withholding from him? Certainly he had seen nothing so far to be afraid of. He puzzled on this the rest of the day and far into the night before dropping off to sleep. The next day he awoke determined to seek out Yeseph and put the questions to him. Why was Theido afraid for Durwin? And why had he changed his mind?

  21

  We have luck with us yet, my friends,” exclaimed Theido upon his return from the shipyards of Bestou.

  “You have found a ship to take us to Karsh?” asked Alinea. She and Durwin sat in the lodge of the Flying Fish Inn, waiting for Theido to arrange their passage to the island stronghold of Nimrood the Necromancer.

  “Yes, though it has not been easy. I have asked fully half of the captains in the yard if we may be accommodated—always the same reply: ‘We stay far away from Karsh! Not for gold, nor for the blessing of the sea gods themselves would we go there!’

  “One man sought me out, however. He said he is captain and owner of a ship that would pass near Karsh and would be willing to land us on a friendly shore, if there is such a thing in Karsh.”

  “He sought you out, you say?” mused Durwin. “We must be suspect of any offering aid too readily. They may be in Nimrood’s employ.”

  Theido brushed the observation aside impatiently. “We cannot always be looking under every rock and behind every tree for a spy. We must trust our own initiative; we must act!”

  “Of course, Theido. But we would do well to remember that our foe is a sorcerer of great skill, adept in evil of every kind. And his net is cast wide indeed.”

  “That may be,” said Theido a little angrily. It chafed him to remain idle; a man of action, he wanted to move at once. “But we cannot wait forever for a sign from heaven—whether your god smiles or not, we must go.”

  “Gentlemen, please! Refrain your tempers for the sake of our cause,” pleaded Alinea. She had seen the growing restlessness of Theido in the past few days as they waited for a favorable result from the docks. She had often to play the peacemaker, supplying the gentle word or a quiet touch in times of heated discussion between the two men. “I am as anxious as either of you to see the end of our journey, but not at the cost of enmity between us. That, I fear, would be disaster for us and our good king.”

  Theido nodded, acknowledging the reproof. Durwin, too, admitted his irritation, laying a hand upon Alinea’s and saying, “You are right, my lady. Our purpose will not be served if we are crossing swords with one another.”

  “Then come, good friends. Let us be resolved. Our differences are slight and better put far behind us.” She looked long at Theido’s worn appearance and at Durwin’s usually cheerful countenance, now overcast with care. “My king has never had more noble subjects, nor any half as brave. His gratitude to you in this adventure will be hard-pressed to find worthy enough expression.”

  “To see him alive and safe once more will be payment enough,” said Theido. He smiled, but the tight lines around his eyes were not erased.

  The party had reached Bestou on the island of Tildeen after a rigorous march through the tangled forest surrounding Dekra. Their path had become surer and the way easier upon reaching the fishing outpost, hardly big enough to be called a village, of Tuck. There they clambered aboard the ferry, which plied the narrow channel to the island of Tildeen, one of the larger of what were called the Seven Mystic Isles. In truth, there was nothing particularly mysterious about any of the islands in the small chain—only that the largest, Corithy, had long ages ago been used as a primitive holy sanctuary of a shadowy, secret religion. Strange events were said still to take place on that odd-shaped, often mist-shrouded island.

  But Tildeen, the second largest of the seven, was the site of the seaport city, Bestou. This commercial center served as the winter refuge for the whole of Mensandor because of its immense sheltered harbor, which seldom froze during the coldest months, despite the island’s northern lay.

  Upon arriving on Tildeen, put ashore rudely by the rustic operator of the ferry, Theido, Durwin, Alinea, and trusty Trenn had before them an arduous mountain trek, up and over the hunched and twisted backbone of the island, on a serpentine path descending at last to the lowlying port on the other side.

  The journey was accomplished in more time than Theido would have liked to allow. But as the group came within sight of the harbor, approaching like bandits dropping down out of the high hills behind Bestou, Theido had been vindicated for his relentless push along the trail; the ships lay at anchor, their colored sails ready-furled, waiting for the first good day to sail.

  As he walked the shore that first morning after their arrival, having spent the first warm night in weeks before the fire in the lodge of the Flying Fish, Theido had talked to sailors and captains of large ships and small. Each refused, some politely and others with bold discourtesy, to grant them passage to that accursed land.

  Their reluctance was understandable. Karsh, a grotesque lump of earth, the tip of a huge submerged mountain, jutted out of the water far east off the coast of Elsendor, Mensandor’s sprawling neighbor. The island had long been shunned by superstitious sailors, even before Nimrood had taken up residence there and built his fortress. The place was forsaken by all gentle humanity, fit only for countless seabirds, which nested in the precipitous cliffs on the western side, and the tiny land crabs that feasted upon the washed-up remains of putrid fish and hatchlings from the cliffs above.

  Theido, with Trenn behind, had stalked the wharf for two days before happening upon the captain who agreed to deliver them to the hated island.

  At last satisfied that his objective had been achieved, Theido did not bother with the formality of inspecting the ship or its crew, relying on the word of the captain, a rather short, oppressive-look
ing man who called himself Pyggin, to vouch a faithful account of its seaworthiness.

  He returned to the inn, humming to himself and leaving Trenn to stow their few things and make any provisions he thought necessary for their convenience on board. Trenn, after seeing to his task, also returned to the inn, much less happy than his friend Theido.

  “There is something strange about that ship,” he told Theido, pulling him aside after dinner that evening.

  “What did you see on board—something amiss?” The knight searched the soldier’s troubled features for a clue to his misgivings.

  “Nothing I can say, sir. But I noticed that while all other hands aboard the ships in harbor made ready to get under sail—loading and stocking provisions, mending sails, tarring, and whatnot—this Captain Pyggin’s men sat idle. Not one stirred a hand all the while I was on board. They stood about the deck or sat on barrels in the hold … as if they were waiting for something.” He frowned deeply. “I do not like it at all.”

  “Perhaps they are ready and only waiting for the first fair wind to be under sail. So the captain told me,” replied Theido, blunting the other’s complaint as gently as he could.

  “Perhaps, but I never saw a ship of that size that didn’t need some fixing, nor any captain who ever let a crew stand idle.”

  “That may be,” agreed Theido. “But all we ask is to be put ashore at our destination. Where is the harm in that?”

  Trenn pulled on his chin and scowled furiously, repeating his original pronouncement. “You know best, sir, and no doubt. But I still say there is something strange about that ship.”

  22