In the Hall of the Dragon King

“The people of the realm will seek your protection and bid the gods to defend them. You will not be able to do it, for your prayers will not be heard.”

  “Take him away!” shouted Pluell. “He is raving again.”

  The guards moved to take Biorkis out; the great wooden doors of the temple were already swinging open. The night air blew in among the assembled priests as a sudden chilling reminder of Biorkis’s dire predictions.

  The temple guards hauled their former leader down the long stone steps of the temple and pushed him into the courtyard. Biorkis stumbled a few steps away and then turned toward his accusers, who had spilled out upon the steps to watch him go. The white-haired old man raised his rod of office, which the guards had neglected to wrest from him, and said in a voice strong as cutting steel, “The end of this age is upon us. Look to yourselves for your salvation; the gods will not help you. This temple will not stand!”

  So saying, he threw the rod to the ground, where it burst into a thousand pieces. Then he turned and hobbled off into the night.

  24

  If ears do not deceive, the enemy lies encamped in yonder wood.” Ronsard leaned heavily on the pommel of his saddle, staring down onto the wooded plain below them, black and forbidding in the moonlight.

  “I cannot think what else would raise a clamor like that,” replied Theido; he, too, was tired and arched his back to stretch weary muscles. Ronsard’s knights had dismounted and now walked to draw the stiffness from their legs. Only Esme seemed as fresh as when they had begun so early that morning.

  “What rites require such observance?” wondered Esme as she listened to the horrific din emanating from the wood. The rattling screams pierced the waning night like the cries of the tortured and dying.

  “We can but guess, my lady. But perhaps it is the better for us. We may creep closer while they spend themselves in savage revel.”

  “If Quentin and Toli are down there, we will find them,” said Ronsard resolutely. “We may as well make a start.” He tried his sword in its scabbard; the blade slid easily, flashing a glint of silver in the moonlight. He turned to Esme. “My lady, would you care to remain here until we return for you? It would ease my mind.”

  “Have no fear for me, brave sir. I will do my part. You might need what little service I can render. My arm is not as strong as yours, but my blade is sharp as a serpent’s tooth and quicker still.”

  “As you wish; I shall not discourage you. It does seem most apparent that you can take care of yourself. Follow, then, and do what I direct.” Ronsard flicked the reins and called to his knights, “Be mounted. We will approach the wood single file. Keep blades and shields covered. We will leave our horses in the wood and come to the camp on foot. If all goes well with us, we may escape undetected.”

  “Lord Ronsard!” shouted one of the knights. “Someone flees the wood as you speak. See—there. Along the gully beyond those trees.”

  “I see it!” replied Theido. “Yes! There are three of them. Do you think . . . ?” He looked at Ronsard hopefully.

  “It would do to find out who they are, at least.” He watched the three figures riding away from the wood with some speed; they were pale shapes floating over the gray sea of long grass just above the black line of a dry watercourse some distance away. “I think we may meet them just there.” He pointed with a gloved hand toward a bed where the gully swerved around the base of a hill. “Come, let us see who it is that flees the foul host by night.”

  Quentin clung to the saddle by force of will. He felt drained and used up. All strength had been wrung out of him in the escape. Now he let Blazer have his head and concentrated merely on keeping himself upright in the saddle, knowing he could not go on much longer; soon he would have to stop and rest. But he thought if he could last until daylight, they would be far enough away that stopping would not endanger them.

  So he clutched at the horn of his saddle and hung on as Blazer jounced and jostled along. To his dazed mind it seemed as if he had entered a dream in which hills and sky and woods became his pursuers, crying after him with shrieks of rage and fury. He fled them through gray mists on a horse that flew like the wind, but could not outpace the pursuit.

  In his waking dream he saw an army emerge from the hills above them to come sweeping down upon their flank. The dream-knights came thundering to intercept them; he could see their faces hard in the moonlight, and could feel the hot breath of the horses on his face as they drew nearer as if by magic.

  But there was something odd about the dream; he shook his head to clear it and looked again—the dream remained. Quentin peered intently, forcing himself to see clearly. But again he saw the force of knights moving down the hillside toward them.

  “Toli!” he cried, lurching in his saddle as he flung his good arm out to his side. The Jher glanced quickly over his shoulder and dropped back to Quentin’s side. “They have found us!” he shouted. Toli jerked his head to where Quentin was pointing, and his startled look confirmed at once that it was not a dream. They were being chased.

  He gave a shrill whistle that brought the seneschal around, and at once all three riders turned their horses to the shoulder of the hill beside them.

  Blazer’s hooves bit into the soft earth and flung it skyward as his powerful legs churned. The horse stretched its back and fought its way up the slope of the hill. Quentin threw himself down along the horse’s neck in an effort to maintain his precarious balance.

  Now he could hear the hooves of the strange knights’ horses thundering closer, and he thought he heard a shout. Bending low, he looked along Blazer’s flank behind him and saw that two riders descended into the shallow gully. Another leaped it and came on.

  In that moment of inattention, Blazer spurted ahead and stumbled over a rock protruding from the hill, throwing Quentin sideways as he fought to regain his feet. Quentin’s fingers, so tightly wrapped around the pommel, were wrenched free, and he felt himself sliding backward over the rump of his mount. His injured arm flailed uselessly as his good hand grabbed for the bridle strap. He was not quick enough. Almost before he knew what was happening, he tumbled out of the saddle and landed on the hillside.

  On impact the air rushed out of his lungs, and the night suddenly flashed in a blaze of brilliant stars, their scintillating rays stabbing through his brain. He rolled over, breathless, fighting to force air back into his lungs. He pushed himself up on one knee and threw aside his cloak, which had wrapped itself around his arm. With a shock he realized that he did not have a sword or a poniard with which to defend himself.

  He heard someone shouting and looked up the hill to see Toli wheeling around to come after him. But it was too late. When he turned again, the first of their pursuers came pounding up. The horse reared, and the knight looked down on him. In the pale moonlight Quentin thought he knew the face that sought his; there was something familiar about it, but he could not be sure. He shook his throbbing head slowly, and he heard the whinny of his own mount behind him.

  “Are you hurt?” said the knight towering over him. Quentin could not believe his ears—here was a tongue he recognized. The knight leaned down to look at him closely.

  Yes, the face seemed familiar, like one he had seen in a dream long ago. But it was real, and it peered down on him intently, eyes shining in the soft light.

  “Quentin? By the gods’ beards! Quentin!” the knight shouted, jumping from his horse.

  Quentin shook his head dazedly. He passed his hand in front of his eyes. “Who is it?”

  There was a shout behind him. “Theido. Is it true?” The voice was Toli’s, and in an instant the Jher was beside him, tugging at him.

  “Theido? How . . . ?” Quentin could speak no more. He sank back as heavy vapors of darkness covered him, his consciousness receding swiftly. He heard many shouts and voices close at hand and the sound of horses galloping in. He struggled to keep his eyes open, but his lids had grown leaden, and there was no fight left in him. It seemed that he had grown light as down, for he fe
lt himself borne up as on a sudden gust to ride on the wings of the wind, which now roared in his ears.

  25

  The touch of a cool hand on his brow brought Quentin out of the deepest sleep he had ever known. He heard a voice somewhere above him say, “See there! He has come back. Heoth would not have him!”

  He opened his eyes to see a ring of faces grinning down on him. Esme’s pretty brow wrinkled in concern quickly giving place to relief.

  “There seems to be no escaping you,” remarked Quentin as he strained to sit up. There was laughter all around, and hands reached out to clap him on the back.

  “We knew you could not elude us,” said Ronsard. “Oh, but it is good to see you alive.”

  “Ronsard, Theido . . . I must be dreaming still. How did you find us?”

  “It is no dream, my friend. But if not for this young woman”— Ronsard nodded to Esme kneeling next to him—“we would never have found you, nor even known to search. She showed us where to look.”

  “You came back,” Quentin said.

  “I had to protect my protectors, did I not?” Esme answered. Her sudden smile seemed to warm him from within. “Besides, I had already lost one escort, and I was determined not to lose another.” Her dark eyes suddenly welled with tears. “Forgive me for leaving you, sir. When I saw you pulled from your horse, I wanted to help you, but I could only think of my errand. I am sorry.”

  Toli thrust his head in among those gathered around him. The smell of food that he brought with him reminded Quentin how hungry he was.

  “Eat, Kenta. We have already done so. We will talk while you breakfast.” Toli set a steaming bowl before him, and Quentin fell to with a ready appetite.

  “Myrmior has been telling us of your captivity. You have much to thank him for,” said Theido.

  “Myrmior?” The name was strange to Quentin.

  “You mean he has risked his life to bring you out of the enemy’s camp and you do not know his name?”

  “There was not time enough for such pleasantries. We were quite busy with staying alive. And only half succeeding at that.”

  “This one has a strong will to survive.” The deep rolling voice was the seneschal’s. “I am glad to know you, Lord Quentin.”

  “I am no lord, Myrmior.”

  “Better than that,” said Ronsard. “He is the king’s own son.”

  “His ward,” Quentin corrected.

  “Ward or son, I see I have chosen well the man to save. From now on, my lords, I am at your service. It will be an insult if you do not allow me to serve you in whatever ways you will.” Myrmior bowed low and touched his forehead with his fingertips.

  “You have done service enough for the Dragon King. Your reward is yours to name once we reach Askelon and King Eskevar hears how you have rescued his own from certain death.”

  “I was looking out for myself, sir. I, too, was held against my will by the terrible Ningaal. The risk was but a small one for me, even at that.” Myrmior beamed at Quentin and added, “Whatever gods rule this land, they have poured out their favor upon this one. I have never seen a man survive the wheel, and it was that which allowed me to convince Gurd to spare your life.

  “And you”—he turned to Toli—“your failed attempt at rescue nearly cost my head as well as your own. But Myrmior is nothing if not resourceful. I turned it to advantage, though you had to endure the anguish of seeing the guard’s execution—and fearing the imminence of your own.”

  “It was at least less severe than the execution itself would have been,” replied Toli.

  “How did you come to be in the company of the—what did you call them?—the Ningaal?”

  “The name Ningaal means ‘the Terror of Nin,’ his army. It is no secret how I came to be among them, but it is a story I would rather tell to your Dragon King.”

  “There is much that you might tell, I would wager,” Ronsard put in. “But the sun is well up, and I think we must put as many leagues between us and the Ningaal as may be. The Dragon King awaits in Askelon, and we must not forget the fearful tidings we bring. There will be much to discuss when we sit down together. For now, it is enough that we reach the king as quickly as possible.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Theido, rising to his feet.

  “Quentin cannot ride in his condition, surely. If you like, I will remain with him and come hence on the morrow when he is more able to withstand the journey,” Esme offered.

  Ronsard pulled on his chin. “I did not think that he would be unable to—”

  “I can ride; I am well enough.” To show he meant what he was saying, Quentin fought to his feet, where he swayed uncertainly. He took two steps and pitched forward. Theido reached out a hand to catch him, but Quentin collapsed on the ground.

  “It is your arm, is it? You cannot move it.”

  Quentin rose to his knees, cradling his arm. “It will be all right. It is nothing.”

  “It is enough. Why did you not say something?” Theido bent to examine the injured limb; it was swollen and discolored and hot to the touch.

  “Well, we can do nothing for it here, but I do not like the look of it. Perhaps Toli and Esme should remain behind with you, though I must confess I like that even less.”

  “No one will remain behind, and Kenta will not ride,” said Toli. “Ronsard, send two knights to bring me two young birches. I will fashion a deroit for him.”

  “Excellent!” cried Ronsard. “I might have known you would have a solution—a litter. My knights will fetch you whatever you need.”

  Despite Quentin’s protests, which grew feebler with time, the litter was constructed after a style used by the nomadic Jher. The finished deroit was strapped to Blazer, and before the sun had traveled an hour’s time, the party set off once more toward Askelon. Esme rode Blazer.

  Quentin fumed at being trundled off like so much baggage, but his fussing was mostly for show. Inwardly, he was grateful to Toli for providing him with a means to rest along the way. For despite his assurance to Theido, Quentin was deeply worried about his arm. When he had fallen in the underbrush on the night of their unsuccessful escape, something had snapped—he remembered it vividly—and all the feeling had fled, and with it the ability to move the limb.

  The weary party quit the forest they had been traveling through all day. The sun was lowering in a scarlet haze among flaming clouds as they stepped out of the sheltering boughs upon the hard-packed trail that would lead them to Askelon’s gates.

  “Tonight we will sleep in proper beds with fresh linen,” said Ronsard. “And we will dine in the Hall of the Dragon King.”

  “I wish that it were with lighter hearts than our own that we came here,” Theido replied darkly. “I rue the tidings we must lay upon his shoulders. It is a burden I would not wish on any man.”

  “There will be a burden for all of us, I think,” mused Ronsard.

  Presently the travelers rounded a bend in the road and came to the edge of a broad, shallow valley. Across the valley rose the great dome of rock upon which stood Castle Askelon, transformed in the gloaming into a city of light. The shadow stretching across the length of the valley had not reached the foundation rock of Askelon; the castle rose out of the purple shadow and glinted in the ruby light, a jewel with soaring spires and towers and graceful bartizans perched upon high walls.

  “Oh, it is beautiful,” said Esme, her voice awed and breathless with admiration. “I never dreamed . . .”

  “A god’s very palace! It is a wonder mortals dare intrude,” said Myrmior. “It far outshines even its own legends.”

  Quentin, sprawled on the deroit, craned his neck to see the familiar shape of his beloved Askelon—a sight he never quite got used to, and one that always moved him strangely. It is far different from Dekra, he thought, but the Dragon King’s castle is also home to me. He gazed proudly upon the magnificent structure, rosy in the deepening blue of the twilight sky.

  Toli, riding beside Quentin all the way, sat on his horse unmoved
and stared at the twinkling jewel across the fair valley.

  “What do you say, Toli? We are nearly home.”

  Toli did not look at Quentin when he answered, and when he finally spoke, his voice was far away. “It does appear now to be as far as ever it was when we began this journey.”

  As usual, Toli was seeing something very different from the others. And Quentin had learned it was no use trying to find out what the Jher meant by these mystical pronouncements.

  Ronsard, at the head of the party, urged his mount forward. The others followed him down the gentle slope as the feathery wisps of evening mist began rising in the cool valley. The air was still and silent, a soft sigh upon the land. No one could have described a more perfect picture of peace as they gazed down into the valley growing green with the crops of the peasants, and to the east along the broad expanse of plain already falling to dusk.

  From somewhere in the stillness, a bird trilled a poignant farewell as it winged homeward to the nest, and all at once a sadness came over the party. To Quentin, it seemed that some final word had been spoken, and he was indeed seeing Askelon as it would never appear again.

  26

  You have returned none too soon, my young man.” Durwin scowled as he examined Quentin’s swollen arm. “It appears your arm has been broken and has begun to set.”

  “That is good, is it not?” asked Bria anxiously. She held Quentin’s left hand and snuggled close to him as the hermit poked and prodded Quentin’s injured right arm. Quentin’s filthy tunic had been removed and a soft robe draped across his chest. His arm rested on a cushion on a low table which had been pushed up to his couch.

  “It will heal, Durwin—yes?” Quentin forced himself to ask the question he feared asking the most. Durwin ignored it and answered Bria’s instead.

  “I feel it is not good, my lady. Ordinarily, yes. But not this time. As it is, the arm will never heal properly.”

  “Oh!”