Stephen Lawhead - The sword and the flame

In the last hours of the night, when all the earth was still and waiting for the new day, Quentin had stopped along the road to rest and had fallen asleep beneath a larch tree, his cloak spread over him. Sleep offered no release or comfort; fitful, troubled was his rest, broken by dreams of futile chases and violent clashes with an unseen enemy. There descended upon him a helpless, hopeless feeling of dread and loss which pierced his heart as cruelly as any poisoned dagger, and though he slept he ached with the pain.

He awoke more wrung out than when he lay down, and rose wearily, stiff from his hard bed among the roots of the tree. In the raw red light of dawn, Quentin rubbed his burning eyes and set about saddling Blazer once more.

“Quentin!” The King turned his eyes to the shout and peered into the dimness of the forest trail. The sun was not yet fully up and the shadows still lay heavy along the road, but he perceived the forms of riders approaching some way off. He waited, then recognized Toli riding toward him out of the gloom.

“Sire, at last we have found you.” The Jher’s features bore the traces of a sleepless night, but his eyes were as sharp and quick as ever.

“Have you seen anything?” asked Quentin.

“No, my lord. Nothing, that is, except the body of an unfortunate lying in the road.” Toli eyes examined his master carefully.

“Yes,” said Quentin flatly. He turned away and put his foot into the stirrup, climbing back into the saddle. “I saw him, too.”

Toli did not pursue the matter further, thinking it better to leave it for now. The others joined them, longing for an opportunity to dismount and stretch aching muscles. No one spoke directly to the King. His woeful countenance stilled their tongues.

Only Toli had the temerity to draw him aside to speak openly. “What would you have us do, Kenta?” He used the affectionate name of years past.

“Find my son!” Quentin snapped, his mood raw as the new morning.

Toli wisely ignored the remark. “We should return to the castle for more men; we could cover more ground that way. We need fresh horses and supplies.”

“Do what you will,” replied the King. His jaw was set. “I will continue the search alone.”

“Where will you go?”

“South.”

“Why south? They could easily have turned off the trail anywhere. In the night we would have missed the track.”

“What else am I to do?” shouted Quentin. The others looked at him. He lowered his voice. “I have no better choice.”

“Return with us to Askelon. We will rest and ready ourselves for a proper search. We can send messengers out to all the towns and villages to watch for the brigands. We can-”

“My son has been taken, Toli!” Quentin gestured wildly to the great forest. “I will not return until he is found. I cannot return until he is safe.”

Toli searched the face of the one he knew so well, and yet, at this moment, seemed not to know at all. Something has changed my Kenta, he thought. This is not like him at all. Durwin’s death and the abduction of his son tormented him, twisted him. Yes, but there was something more. Then he saw it-the empty scabbard at Quentin’s side. At once he understood.

“Come back with us, Kenta,” he said softly. “Yesterday we had a chance of finding them quickly. But now… now they have had enough time to cover their trail, to double back-who knows where they may be by now? To find them we will need help, and a leader. You are the King. Who will lead if you will not?”

“Anyone!” snapped Quentin. “Anyone better than I. You lead the search, Toli!” The King’s eyes burned savagely; his mouth contorted into a snarl of hate. “Durwin’s blood is on your head, as is my son’s if anything happens to him. They would be safe now if you had not left them alone. You are to blame for this-it is your fault!”

Toli, speechless, stared at his master and friend. Never had Quentin raised his voice toward him, never had he shown anger toward him. But then, he reflected, the King is right. It is my fault; I am to blame. I should never have left them alone and in danger like that. I am to blame.

“I am sorry,” Toli started. “Sorry-”

“Find my son!” shouted Quentin, his voice shrill. “Find him, or never let me set eyes on you again!”

With that, the Dragon King slashed the reins across the stallion’s neck and wheeled him around. Blazer tossed his handsome white head, and Quentin glared at Toli. “Find him,” he said softly, his tone a threat. “Just find him.”

Toli stood in the road and watched his King ride away. He watched until a bend in the road took him from sight, then went back and mounted Riv, and turned toward Askelon. No one spoke. There was nothing to say.

NIMROOD SAT brooding on a rock, hunched like a bent old root, twisted with age and warped by the dark forces within him. He was waiting for nightfall to undertake the final leg of their journey, for they had reached the eastern edge of the forest and the rest of the way to the temple lay through open ground. He did not want to risk traveling by day; so they waited, restlessly.

Prince Gerin, his young mind alert to all around him, was confident he would not be harmed; and since he appeared in no immediate danger, escape could wait for the right opportunity-if he was not rescued first. He also saw quite plainly that his abductors had little spirit for the task they were about. But the old one, the one with the wild white hair and the face as lined and creased as worn leather, he was one to watch out for.

Who was he? What did he want, and where were they taking him? These questions occupied the young captive as he sat on the ground beneath the tree, two guards with him at all times.

He shifted uneasily, trying to loosen the bonds on his arms.

One of the guards eyed him suspiciously, glared, but did not say anything.

When my father comes for me, thought Gerin, you will be very sorry. I hope he comes soon; I am going to miss the rest of the hunt otherwise.

There was no doubt in the young Prince’s mind that the King would come for him, would rescue him. All he had to do was wait. There came a sound in the wood: someone approaching quickly on foot, and noisily with much rustling of branches and cracking of twigs underfoot. Nimrood jumped up, his voice a harsh whisper. “We are found! Draw your weapons!”

The men jumped up and drew their blades, but before anyone had a chance to position themselves for the attack, the intruder stumbled into camp. “What!” he said, startled. “No, wait!” He fell back and landed on his rump.

“You!” said Nimrood. The man was one of the two left behind to guard their escape.

He jumped up, glancing around quickly with frightened eyes. “I was not followed!” he cried. “Put away your swords!”

“You better not have been followed, or I will feed you piecemeal to the birds. Where is your friend?” Nimrood demanded, shoving aside the others.

“Dead-” The man cast a terrified look behind him, as if expecting his own death to come charging out of the woods at any moment.

“How?” Nimrood stood with hands on his hips, eyes boring into the wretch before him.

“He found us on the road. He guessed all.”

“Who found you?”

The King! He knew all about us!”

“Bah!” Nimrood’s countenance became threatening. The guard quaked with fear. “You said too much!”

“No, by all the gods, I swear it! We told him nothing. He knew-I don’t know how he knew, but he did. We did not have a chance.”

“How many were with him?”

“His Majesty-the King-was alone. I hid in the bushes in case we were forced to attack him.”

“And?” Nimrood stepped closer. The guard grimaced and hurried on with his story.