Stephen Lawhead - The sword and the flame

When the men returned, carrying more bales of pine needles and branches, Ronsard ordered the troops to be changed. Fresh soldiers took over for those who had worked through the night, relieving them so they might go to their well-earned rest. The new contingent fell to with a zeal, and the catapulting continued.

Ronsard, increasingly anxious over his friend’s delay, placed command of the machines in a subordinate’s hands and returned to camp to form a search party to go after Theido and his band. He had assembled the men, and they had armed themselves accordingly and were about to start off on the trail Theido had himself taken when a voice hailed them from the forest. “Ho! Ronsard!”

The knight spun on his heel and met the returning party coming toward them through the forest, their faces drawn with fatigue, but adopting a jaunty air for their comrades.

“We were just setting off to look for you. You were due back long ago.”

“I began to think we would never leave. The watch returned to the towers and wall, and we were trapped below the cliff. We had to wait until the guard changed before we could move.”

“Well? Am I to guess the rest?”

“We found it: the secret postern entrance. Ameronis is clever, and it took us all night, but we found it.”

At this Ronsard and his search party broke out in cheers for their comrades, clapping them on the backs and shaking their hands. “Where is it? Tell me everything you know about it.”

Theido dismissed his men to their rest, and he and Ronsard walked to the tent that had been raised for them as their command post and private chambers. Inside, they sat down on benches facing one another across a rough-hewn table. “At first it did not appear that we would find an entrance-secret or otherwise. The cliff below the west wall is smooth-faced and drops away at a sharp angle to the water. But below is a narrow shingle a man may walk along-” He paused and pointed to a jug. “I could use a drink of water.”

Ronsard snatched the jug, poured, and handed Theido the cup. “Go on, go on. What did you find?”

“That is much better,” Theido replied. “Now then… yes, the river bends around the castle rock, and if you follow it far enough you will find that the shore widens as it passes the rock. Here” -he traced with his fingers on the table before them-“and here the forest comes down to the water’s edge. I sent the men up along this lower bank as far as it went before it flattened out to the waterline again.

“We found nothing at first. On the second sweep along the bank, one of the men found a cave well up on the cliff face-small, but large enough for a man to squeeze through. It was hidden by juniper scrub, so was impossible to see from the northern approach. But from the opposite direction it could be spotted. They climbed up into the cave mouth and found that not more than half a dozen paces inside, the cave becomes a tunnel.”

“No!”

“Yes,” Theido affirmed. “The tunnel, though long and winding like a snake, leads to a portcullis of iron and a gate beyond.”

“Right into the heart of Ameronis’ lair. Well done! Well done, indeed!” He beamed at his friend. “This was a night well spent.” Immediately the knight’s mind began making calculations, racing ahead to make plans for the campaign to follow. “Can we cut through the ironwork?”

“Yes,” replied Theido with a yawn. “I did not see the gate, and we had no torches to properly examine the tunnel-all had to be explored in the dark-but the tunnel is not large, so they were able to at least reach the portcullis without difficulty. But yes, it can be cut through-given enough time. The iron is thick, and appears to be well made. It will take time.”

“Then we must begin at once.” He saw the look on Theido’s face and asked, “Can we reach the tunnel in daylight without being seen?”

“No.” Theido shook his head wearily. “At least not by land. But there is a chance that if we go by water, hugging close to the riverbank below the walls, we can reach it without being seen from above.”

“Swim?”

“Too difficult. We could not carry the tools we would need.”

“We have no boats.”

“Rafts. We must construct two rafts of size enough to hold a dozen men each with equipment and weapons.”

Ronsard stared across the table. “That will take a day at least, maybe two.”

“We have no better choice that I can see. Scaling the walls without help from inside is our last resort. The foe is well-equipped-certainly better provisioned than we are-and we cannot wait for them to be weakened by the siege. No, the secret gate is the only way.”

Ronsard fell silent as he turned the matter over in his head. Finally, he admitted that Theido was right and said, “In that case, I must not waste time sitting here. I will have the carpenters begin constructing the rafts at once.” He stood to leave. “You look weary to the bone. Sleep now; I will attend to the raft building and summon you if there is any need.” He moved to the entrance and held back the flap, hesitated, and said, “We will win, Theido.”

Ronsard’s voice asked for confirmation. Theido, always so certain before, so sure that the right would win out in the end, could not muster that same strength of conviction now. For once it seemed as if despite all they might do, they would not prevail, that the evil which had poisoned the realm so swiftly had achieved its end already and they were powerless to turn aside its effects.

Ronsard’s statement begged confirmation. Theido lifted his shoulders and sighed, “I wish I knew, brave friend.”

Ronsard lingered, watching him. Theido rubbed his face with his hands, and yawned. “It has been a long night,” he said. “I am tired.” At last Ronsard turned his face away, looking out into the camp, but not seeing the men moving there, cooking their breakfasts before the fire, carrying firewood and water, looking after their weapons and the horses. The light shining on his face, his jaw flexed and set, Ronsard stepped outside, leaving Theido to his sleep.

QUENTIN STALKED the high wall walks of the castle. Restless, unable to sleep, he paced the bartizans and battlements, his short cloak flying out behind him like wings, his unkempt hair streaming back from his head in wild disarray. To any who saw him, the King appeared as one gone mad, roaming the high places in the dead of night like those unhappy spirits who haunted the desolate places.

The King himself was not aware of what he was doing. He only knew that he could not remain still any longer; he must move, walk, go, and keep going lest he fall under the weight of the blackness which had crept into his heart. He had wrestled with it often enough in the last days to know that he could not win against it. It held him in a death grip, and meant to drag him down into the dust of oblivion.

So, to hold the inevitable at bay yet a little longer, he prowled the walls by night, in the light of a pale sickle moon, like an animal half-crazed with pain. Quentin felt the night press in upon him, enfolding him in its velvet embrace, smothering him. He stared out across the land eastward and saw the dark line of Pelgrin hedging the broad, flat plain. Beyond Pelgrin, further east and north, lay Narramoor and the High Temple on its flat table of stone, overlooking the entire kingdom.

Somewhere within that temple his son waited for him to come and rescue him, waited as he himself had waited as a boy for someone to carry him away from that place. And he had been rescued-by a dying knight who placed in his hands a charge that he alone could fulfill. In those days it had been easy-easy to believe, easy to follow without asking for signs or assurances, or at least without requiring them at every turn.