Stephen Lawhead - Dragon King 01 - In the Hall of the Drago

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The Dragon King

Stephen Lawhead

dawning sky. Overhead, a raven surveyed a silent landscape as its black

wings feathered the cold, thin air. The bird’s rasping call was the only

sound to be heard for miles, breaking the frozen solitude in irregular

staccato. All around, the land lay asleep in the depths of winter.

Every bear, every fox, hare, and squirrel was warm in its rustic nest. Cattle

and horses stood contented in their stalls, heads drooping in slumber, or

quietly munching the first of the day’s provender. In the country, smoke

drifted from peasant huts into the windless sky from rough-hewn

chimneys, sent aloft from hearth fires tended through the night. The

village, clustered close about the mighty walls of Askelon Castle, slept in

pristine splendor, a princess safe in the arms of her protector.

All through the land nothing moved, nothing stirred, save the raven

wheeling slowly overhead.

Quentin lay shivering in his cell, a huddled ball topped by a thin woolen

blanket which he clasped tightly around his ears in a resolute effort to

keep out the night chill. He had been awake, and cold, long before the

sullen sky showed its drab gray through the lone slit of a window high up

in his cell. Now the gloom had receded sufficiently to make out the dim

outlines of the simple objects that furnished his bare apartment.

Next to the straw pallet where he slept stood a sturdy oaken stool, made by

the hand of a local peasant. A table of the same craft stood against the wall

opposite his bed, containing his few personal articles: a clay bowl for his

supper, a candle in a wooden holder, a small bell for his prayers, and a

parchment scroll on which was written all the rules and observances of his

acolyte’s office and which, after almost three years, Quentin was still

struggling to memorize.

From somewhere in the inner recesses of the temple the chime of a bell

sounded. Quentin groaned, then jumped up in bed, pulling the blanket

gods to leave part of the prophecy hidden. He had at last deduced the date

of the change by a dream in which he had climbed a high mountain and

then had leaped from its very pinnacle and sailed out into space, not

falling but flying. Flying dreams were always lucky. His lucky day was

always a holy day and this day, the feast of Kamali—admittedly a minor

holy day— was nevertheless the first holy day to have fallen since his

dream.

Today, without question, was the eventful day; the tokens were

indisputable. Quentin reviewed them in his mind as he hurriedly threw his

coarse, heavy acolyte’s robe over his head of close-cropped brown hair.

He stuffed his feet into baggy stockings and laced the thongs of his

sandals around them tightly. Then, grabbing his prayer bell, he dashed out

of the cubicle and into the dark, chilly corridor beyond.

Quentin was half-way down the high-arched passageway when another

bell sounded. A deep resonant peal rang out in three short intervals. A

brief pause. And then three again. Quentin puzzled the meaning of this

bell; he had not heard it before that he could remember.

Suddenly it came to him. Alarm!

He stopped, confused. As he turned to run toward the sound of the bell he

collided blindly with the round, fully padded form of Biorkis, one of the

elder priests.

“Oof lad!” cried the priest good-naturedly. “No need for panic.”

“That was the alarm bell just now!” cried Quentin, inching around the

puffing priest. “We must hurry!”

“No need. The servants of Ariel do not run. Besides,” he added with a

wink, “that was a summons bell. Not the alarm.” Quentin suddenly felt

very foolish. He felt his face coloring; his eyes sought the stone flagging at

outdoors— a trail of snow attested to the fact, as did the snow-encrusted

bundle itself.

Closer, Quentin saw the bundle was that of a human form wrapped heavily

against the cold. The priests were now bending over the inert shape which

to all appearances seemed dead. Biorkis placed a warning hand on

Quentin’s arm and stepped slowly forward.

“What is this, good brothers? A wayward pilgrim early to the shrine?”

“This is no pilgrim by the look of him,” said the guard rubbing his hands

to restore the warmth. “More likely a beggar for our feastday orts.”

“Then he shall have them,” replied Biorkis.

“He is past nourishment,” observed Izash, the eldest priest of the temple

whose symbol of office was a long braided beard. “Or, he very soon will

be, I fear.” He tapped his sacred white rod and stirred the air in front of

him, indicating that the man should be turned over the better to see his

face.

Two junior priests knelt over the lifeless form and gingerly tugged at the

wider part of the bundle which formed the man’s shoulders. The priests,

overly careful not to defile themselves lest they should find themselves

touching a dead body, ineffectually jerked at the corners of the rough fur

skins the man wore for warmth. Biorkis watched the timid struggle with

impatience, finally exploding, “Get out of the way! I’m not afraid of

Azrael; my hands have touched worse!” He stooped over the body and

rolled it into his arms.

Quentin, moving around the perimeter for a better look, gasped at the

sight. The man’s face was ashen white and his lips, pressed together in a

thin line, were blue. He appeared completely frozen. But even as Quentin

looked on fearfully the man’s gray eyelids flickered. Biorkis, noticing the

spikes, and his forearms and shins were sheathed in studded guards.

Biorkis, still holding the man’s head, tugged at the strap fastening the

helmet. It rolled free, clanking upon the stone floor, and a murmur went up

from those surrounding. Quentin looked away. The knight’s head was a

mass of blood. An open wound gaped just over his temple where skin and

bone had been crushed by a sharp blow.

The kind priest knelt with the knight’s head on his knees and pushed the

man’s matted hah- from his forehead. He gently loosed the bindings of the

breastplate and two priests set it aside. A groan emerged from the man’s

throat, shallow at first then gaining in strength.

“The vial,” Biorkis ordered. Snatching it up and dipping two fingers into

the salve, the priest smoothed the healing ointment upon the man’s face.

Its aromatic vapors produced an immediate result, for the soldier’s eyes

flickered again and then snapped open as those of a man struggling out of

a dream.

“So, he is to be with us a little longer,” said Izash. “Give him some wine.

He may tell us of his errand.” The old priest stepped closer and leaned low

on his staff to better hear what might transpire.

Biorkis administered the wine as the knight, without strength enough to tilt

his head, allowed the liquor to be poured down his throat. In Biorkis’

hands the wine seemed to have a magical effect. Color seeped slowly back

into the man’s face and his breathing now deepened where before there

had been no discernible breath at all.

“Welcome, good soldier.” Izash addressed the knight respectfully. “If you

feel like talking, perhaps you could tell us how you have come here, and

why.”

The fair-haired knight rolled his eyes and attempted to twist his head in

then lowered the cup to the knight’s lips once more. The prostrate man

drank more readily, and finishing, paused before attempting to speak

again.

“Now, sir, enlighten an old busybody if you will. That is, if you have no

reason to conceal your errand.” Izash inclined his old head; his white

beard fell almost to the floor. A slight smile creased his lined face as if to

coax the words forth with kindness.

“I am Ronsard,” the knight’s voice cracked. Another sip of wine followed

that exertion. His eyes, steel gray in the silver light, looked around at the

tight circle of faces bent over him. “Where am I?” he asked quietly.

“You are among Mends,” Biorkis told him. This is the holy temple of

Ariel, and we are his priests. You may speak freely. No harm can reach

you here.”

As if reassured by the soothing words the knight licked his lips and said

with as much strength as he could muster, “I am come from the King.”

The words were simple, but they struck the ears of the listeners like

thunder. The King! He comes from the King! The murmur rose to echo

from the high vaulted arches of the temple.

Only Izash, still leaning upon his rod, seemed unimpressed.

“Our king? Or someone else’s?” the elderly priest asked.

“King Eskevar,” the fallen knight answered with spirit.

The name sent another ripple through the gathered priests. The King had

been absent so long, his name unheard among his own countrymen, that

hearing it now brought hope to all gathered there.

“And what of the King?” the old priest continued. His probing had a

method to it; he was occupying the knight, making him forget his wounds

No one will bother you for the details of your mission. Your secret is safe

within these walls. Rest now. I do not like the look of that wound.”

“No!” the knight shouted hoarsely, his face contorted in agony. Then in a

queer, rasping whisper, “I’m dying. You must deliver my message to the

Queen. It must not wait.”

Biorkis stooped with the knight’s head gently in his hands as the man was

carefully transferred to the pallet. The knight clutched the wooden sides of

the bed and raised himself upon his elbows. Blood ran freely down the

side of his head and neck, staining his green tunic a dull, rusty gray.

“You must help me!” he demanded. “One of you must go in my stead to

the Queen.” With that he fell back in a swoon upon his bed. The color had

run from his face. He appeared dead to those who looked on in fear and

wonder.

The priests glanced from one to another helplessly. Biorkis stood, his

hands dripping with the knight’s fresh blood. He searched the faces of his

brothers and gauged the worry there. Then he stepped close to Izash who

motioned him aside.

“Here is an unwanted problem,” the old priest observed. “I see no help we

can offer, save all that is in our power to heal his wounds and send him

speedily on his way.”

“The delay—what of that?”

“It cannot be helped, I’m afraid.”

“Though we do all in our power to heal him, still he may die,” Biorkis

objected. “He is as good as dead already.” Something in the knight’s

voice, his look, spoke to Biorkis. The man had certainly overcome

crushing odds, and even now refused his deathbed on the strength of his

message alone. Whatever the tidings, this news of the king was of the

No! the knight objected with surprising force. There s no time. One of

you must ride to the Queen.” His eyes implored the priest.

“Sir, you do not know what you ask,” Izash answered. He waved an arm

to include the whole of the assembled priests. “We are under sacred vows

and cannot leave the temple, except on pilgrimage, or matters of the

highest sacred import. The fate of nations, kings, and powers concerns us

not at all. We serve only the god Ariel; we are his subjects alone.”

Biorkis looked sadly down upon the dying man. “He speaks the cold heart

of the oath we have taken. My own heart says, ‘Go,’ but I cannot. For to

leave the temple on this errand would mean breaking our sacred vows.

Any priest who did that would forfeit his whole life’s work and his soul’s

eternal happiness. There are none here who would risk that, nor would I

ask it of them.”

The priests nodded solemnly in agreement. Some shrugged and turned

away lest they be drafted to the task, others held out their hands in helpless

supplication.

“Will not one of you match your life with mine? Will no one risk the

displeasure of the god to save the King?” The knight’s challenge sounded

loud in the ears of those around him although he’d spoken barely a

whisper.

“I will go,” said a small, uncertain voice.

Biorkis, Izash, and the other priests turned toward the voice. There in the

shadow of an arch stood the slight figure belonging to the voice. The

figure stepped slowly forward to stand by the side of the dying knight.

“You, Quentin?” Biorkis asked in amazement; the others whispered

behind their hands. “You would go?”

THE MIGHTY horse carried his insignificant rider with tireless ease.

Trained in the hard school of combat, Balder was used to bearing the

weight of grown men in full armor upon his broad back. Quentin, clinging

like a cold leaf to the magnificent animal’s neck, was scarcely a burden at

all.

The day was young and although still overcast as on the day previous, the

low cloud covering showed signs of breaking up before long. The wind

had freshened, sending whirling white clouds across the tops of the drifts

with every fitful gust. Each blast sent a shiver along Quentin’s ribs. He

wondered whether he would ever be warm again. But he did not greatly

mind the discomfort, for at last the change long foretold was in motion.

Where it would lead, what it would mean, he did not know. For the

present he was caught up in the adventure of it, yet he kept his eyes sharp

to any omen which might present itself.

Nothing presented itself to his gaze except a vast expanse of white,

unbroken except by irregular dark lumps mushrooming out of the snow.

These were the peasant huts, and sometimes he saw a face peer at him

from around the corner of a doorpost, or a timid wave acknowledged his

presence as a bent form hobbled through the snow under a burden of

firewood.

In his seven years’ cloister within the temple, the land, it seemed to

Quentin, had changed little. Yet it had changed.

There was something unmistakable in the eyes of the peasants he met,

something which struck him fresh each time he saw it. Was it fear?

himself—had been against it. And still, when all the facts were laid end to

end, there was no better plan. Quentin would go at once allowing only a

day’s rest and feeding for the horse. The animal had been found patiently

standing in the outer courtyard of the temple where his master had left him

before climbing and then collapsing upon the outer steps. It was the

horse’s whinny to his fallen rider that had alerted the temple guards who

then discovered the wounded, half-frozen knight.

Reluctantly, Biorkis had given his approval to the enterprise, for although

his young age was against him, Quentin was the only logical choice. He

was merely an acolyte, not a priest, as yet not having taken his vows or

completed his initiation—a process which normally encompassed twenty

years or more. Quentin had completed only seven years of instruction. At

fifteen he still had years of study ahead of him; others his own age were

already novitiates. The road to becoming a priest was a long one; most

began it while still small children. Quentin, although dedicated to his

calling at age eight, had come to it late.

Now that career was behind him. Never again would he be allowed to

return to the temple, except as a dutiful worshipper begging some boon

from the god. Ariel was a jealous god; once you had turned away he knew

you no more. Only by distinguishing himself in some act of great heroism

could Quentin hope to regain the god’s favor. That he vowed he would

do—just as soon as he could.

The journey from Narramoor, the holy city, to Askelon, the King’s

stronghold, was a matter of two days by horse. The temple, according to

the most ancient customs of the realm of Mensandor, was built in the high

foothills overlooking the land it sheltered with its prayers. In the spring

and early summer pilgrims came from all over the country to ask prayers

for good crops and healthy livestock. Each town and village also had a

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TheDragonKingByStephenLawheaddawningsky.Overhead,aravensurveyedasilentlandscapeasitsblackwingsfeatheredthecold,thinair.Thebird’sraspingcallwastheonlysoundtobeheardformiles,breakingthefrozensolitudeinirregularstaccato.Allaround,thelandlayasleepinthedepthsofwinter.Everybear,everyfox,hare,andsquirrelwa...

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Stephen Lawhead - Dragon King 01 - In the Hall of the Drago

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