Stephen Lawhead - Dragon King 03 - The Sword and the Flame

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2024-12-20 0 0 642.17KB 309 页 5.9玖币
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AND THE FLAME
By
Stephen Lawhead
THE HUNCHED figure toiled up the winding trail leaning heavily upon
his long crooked staff, stopping frequently to rest and to look down upon
the placid lowlands, gazing toward the west in the direction of Askelon.
He was an old man of years beyond counting, dressed in the robes and
cowl of a priest. The hood threw a dark shadow across his features, and
though the day was hot and the sun bright, he did not uncover his head but
went on his way wrapped head to toe. Seen from a distance he might have
been a black beetle scrabbling up a hillock bearing the weight of his
burdensome shell.
When he reached the summit of the plateau he sat down on a rock beneath
an ancient wind-worn tree that threw its sparse, gnarled branches over the
road. Many a pilgrim had sat there upon that rock to offer up a prayer to
the gods for a fortuitous oracle.
But this traveler was no pilgrim and offered no prayers.
Instead, he sat and with narrowed eyes gazed out over the countryside.
The air sang with bird-song and shimmered as the heat rose in waves from
the land. In the misty blue distance his sharp eagle’s vision could see the
dark green line of Pelgrin Forest, lying like a vast green sea away to the
west. In the valley below, peasants labored in the fields among their new
crops. Their shouts to their lazy oxen drifted up the side of the hill like
petitions to an unhearing god.
The old man turned his face away from the peaceful landscape shining
green and golden beneath clear, untroubled blue skies. He looked toward
the temple rising white and silent as a tomb above him. Then he lifted
himself heavily to his legs once more, took up his staff, and continued on.
head out. “The temple is not open at this hour.” The man looked at the old
priest unkindly. “Come back at the seventh hour if you want prayers or an
omen.”
“Do you not see that I am a priest?” asked the old one. “I have come to see
the High Priest of Ariel.”
“He sees no one,” the temple guard said. “He is in retreat.”
“Is he, indeed? But this is a matter of greatest urgency. He must see me.”
The guard glared at the wrinkled old priest, and his features proclaimed
that the old man and his crooked staff were a great nuisance.
But before he could reply, the old priest spoke again. “It is not for you to
decide. Bring someone in authority. If not the High Priest, then the under-
High Priest, or the Day Priest.”
The temple guard glared a silent curse on the old man and closed the door.
The elderly priest stood for a few moments and waited, head bent down.
Just as he was about to raise the ring once again he heard steps on the
other side of the door. A gray-cloaked priest, a young man with a pocked
face, thrust his head through the opening. Behind him the guard stood
frowning.
“Well,” the young priest said, “what do you want?”
“I wish to speak with the High Priest. That is allowed, surely. It is a matter
of some importance.”
“He sees no one unannounced,” snapped the priest.
“Then I wish to be announced at once,” said the old man softly. His faded
eyes hardened to stone.
“High Priest Pluell is in retreat; he cannot be disturbed. I am the Day
Priest; I am empowered to help you.”
“I will abide,” said the old man. He turned and began slowly descending
the temple steps.
“What name shall I give him?” shouted the young priest after him.
The old man paused, leaned on his staff, and seemed to ponder the
question carefully. “Well?” called the Day Priest.
“Tell him,” the old man began at length, “that a friend from the east has
come.” One gnarled hand disappeared beneath the folds of his robes. “And
give him this.” He withdrew his hand and held out a darkly glittering
object.
The young man came out of the temple and took the talisman from the
outstretched hand. He held it in his palm and examined it closely.
The object was a flat round medal made of black stone, and was inscribed
with strange symbols which he did not recognize. It was cold in his hand,
and a strange feeling came over him as he held the talisman—a feeling of
deep foreboding, of doom gathering around him like the high dark clouds
overhead.
Without another word he turned and went back into the temple. The old
man continued down the steps and made his way slowly to the bench
under the tree. He settled himself to wait in the shade.
The day progressed leisurely. At midday a straggling few pilgrims came to
the temple. The Day Priest met them and took their offerings. The pilgrims
waited and then were admitted into the temple for their oracle. They came
out and went away chattering happily, full of the good fortune which had
been assured them by the priests. None noticed the old man sitting quiet as
an idol beneath the tree by the wall.
Evening came on, and with it a cool breeze out of the east, scented with
of its closing echoed through the empty yard.
The old man did not move; he merely closed his eyes once more and
waited.
High clouds, flying swiftly on the upper winds like tattered sails, obscured
the moon rising over the valley. The breeze came in gusts now, and in the
distance could be heard the muted rumblings of thunder far away. A few
dry leaves flittered across the stone flagging of the temple yard, their
tumbling shapes like skittering mice. The torch in the pylon sputtered as
the wind played with it.
The old man sat with his head down; he drew his robes more closely
around him and waited.
At midnight the courtyard was dark and silent. Clouds covered the sky,
and the distant mumbling of thunder sounded ever closer. The wind was
fresh and steady out of the east, guttering the flame of the torch, making
shadows leap and dance around the pylon.
Then, from the far tide of the temple, came the faint glimmer of another
light. The winking light approached, swinging in the band that held it,
accompanied by the muffled slap of sandals on the stones. The old man
raised his head and smiled in the dark.
In a moment the stranger had come to stand before the seated figure. He
raised the shuttered lantern and opened one of the small doors to let out
more light. In the yellow glow of the lantern the priest studied his visitor.
“Who are you?” asked the priest.
“So, Pluell, you have come at last.”
“How do you know me?”
“You are the High Priest, are you not? Does not the High Priest have a
name?”
“You received my talisman, did you not?”
“I did.” He stuck out his hand and held out the black stone. The old man
took it and held it up. “It is a most curious piece.”
“Yes, most curious.” The old man concealed it in his robe.
Just then the sky above was torn by lightning, illuminating the two figures
in stark, unnatural light.
“The storm is upon us,” said the old man.
“Who are you?” asked the High Priest.
“I tell you that you know.”
“Bah! You’re wasting my time. I’ll have nothing more to do with you.
You are keeping me from my bed.” He glared at the old man. “It was
foolish for me to come.”
“And yet you came. Why, I wonder?”
The High Priest opened his mouth to speak, thought better, and closed it
again.
“I will tell you why,” intoned the old man softly. “You came because you
had to come. You had no other choice but to come and see for yourself if
what you thought was true.”
The High Priest said nothing. The wind gusted and the torch flared. The
tree branches above them creaked and groaned in the wind.
“You came because I summoned you.”
“You lying old fool!” said Pluell. “I will not listen to this.”
“Yon came because you know trouble approaches, and you know I can
help.”
But you are dead! Years ago... I was but a boy... I heard you were killed
in the bank with the Dragon King...”
“Ah you see, I was not,” replied the old man.
“Nimrood! I dare not believe my eyes!”
“Believe them, sir! It is Nimrood and none other.”
Lightning streaked the sky, loosing thunder to march out in booming steps
across the valley. Heavy drops of rain began thudding to earth, splashing
against the stones in the temple yard.
“You spoke of trouble,” said High Priest Pluell. “How can you help?”
Nimrood turned his face to the sky. “The storm is come in force. Would
you not rather invite me into your private chambers? I think we might
have much to discuss.”
High Priest Pluell stood in momentary indecision. He glanced at Nimrood
sharply, weighing the matter. Rain spattered down into his ace. The torch
on the pylon guttered out, hissing like a serpent in the dark.
“Very well,” Pluell said. “Follow me.” He led them to the little-used side
entrance, leaving the temple yard to the rain and the night.
BRIA LAY for a moment listening to the drip of the rain onto the bartizan
outside their chamber. The doors were thrown open wide and the gentle
summer breeze blew in, bringing with it the fresh dean scent of rain-
washed air. Tiny blue birds twittered on the balustrade, making joyful
music to the morning.
The Queen rolled over and flung an encircling arm to her side. Her hand
patted the empty bedclothes where her husband would have been. He was
gone. She opened her eyes lazily and murmured, “Oh, Quentin, do you
never rest?”
She rose and threw on a robe. At once a maidservant came scurrying with
a fresh summer gown of sky-blue samite with a belt of finely wrought
gold.
“My Lady slept well?” asked the young woman. “Well, thank you,
Glenna. Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
“Yes, my Lady. Beautiful.” She smiled, and light shone in her eyes.
“Almost as beautiful as my Lady.”
“Your flattery is as easily given as the bird’s song.” Bria laughed and the
room was brighter. “Have you seen the King?”
“No, my Lady. Shall I send for the chamberlain?” The Queen shrugged.
“There is no need. I know where he has gone.”
The servant helped her Queen dress and then set about tidying the room.
Bria went out from the royal apartments and made her way to the kitchens.
She passed lightly through a corridor and down a flight of steps to a
danced on her tiny slippered feet, smiled happily up at her mother, her
green eyes twinkling with the merriment of her secret. Her sister, Princess
Brianna, slender as a new spring shoot and dressed in bright blue like her
mother, pressed the Queen’s hand and said, “Come and sit with us,
Mother. We have so much to tell you!”
Princess Elena shook her head vigorously. “Yes, oh yes. So much to tell
you!”
“Very well,” said Queen Bria, settling herself lightly on the bench at the
table. “What is your news? I cannot wait another instant!”
The older girl glanced at her sister, and both burst into laughter. The sound
was pure delight. Several kitchen servants stopped to look on and smile,
arrested by the little Princesses’ happiness.
“Will you keep your poor mother in suspense? I confess I must know at
once!” Bria took their hands and squeezed them both.
Still laughing, the words tumbled out. “Esme is coming! Esme! Isn’t that
wonderful?” they shouted. “Esme will be here tonight!”
“That is indeed wonderful news!” cried Bria, hugging her daughters.
“Oh, but please don’t tell Father,” said Brianna. “We want to tell him.
Please?”
“Yes, you shall tell him. It will be your surprise.”
“Oh, let’s go find him!” cried Elena.
The two would have darted off at once, but the Queen called them back.
“The King is not here, my doves. He rode out this morning early to the
temple.”
“May we go, too? Please, Mother?” they asked excitedly. “Come and eat a
bite of breakfast first, and we shall see.” Bria glanced around the room
ready for Lady Esme s visit!
They sat down to eat, but the girls were in such high spirits that they could
only peck at their food. At last their mother dismissed them, and they ran
laughing from the hall. Bria smiled, watching their braids flouncing as
they went.
So Esme is coming. That is good news, she thought. How did the girls find
out, I wonder. Well, however it is, she will be greatly welcome. It has
been too long since she was in Askelon. Too long. I have missed her.
Quentin stood at a large, rough-hewn table in the center of a great
rectangle of stone. His head was bent in concentration over a huge
parchment roll which was weighted down at either end with a stone.
“See here,” he said, pointing to a place on the plan. “If we raise this wall
within the week, we can begin laying in the beams. What do you say to
that, Bertram?”
Bertram, the grizzled old master mason, squinted at the place where the
King’s finger pointed, then raised his head and scratched his scruffy jaw,
nodding at the wall before them across the way. “Aye, it is possible, Sire,”
he replied diplomatically. “But the corbels must be set first and they are
not ready yet. Nor the trusses, neither.”
“Hmm,” said the King, frowning.
“But we’ll see her raised soon enough, m’ lord. Indeed we will. Count on
it. Up she’ll go soon enough.” He nodded his head and then called over to
one of his masons. “Excuse me, Sire. I must attend-”
“Yes, of course. Go on. I am returning to the castle soon.”
“Good day to you, m’ lord.” Bertram bowed and hurried away.
Quentin stood for a moment with his hands on his hips and gazed at the
work going on around him. The morning was clear and bright, the long
摘要：

ANDTHEFLAMEByStephenLawheadTHEHUNCHEDfiguretoiledupthewindingtrailleaningheavilyuponhislongcrookedstaff,stoppingfrequentlytorestandtolookdownupo theplacidlowlands,gazingtowardthewestinthedirectionofAskelon.Hewasanoldmanofyearsbeyondcounting,dressedintherobesandcowlofapriest.Thehoodthrewadarkshadowa...

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