Stephen Lawhead - The sword and the flame

Ronsard smiled. “Excellent! Yes, that is the Quentin I know! Those jackals will turn tail and run!”

“You know that I would not lift blade against them if it could be avoided. I would not that a single man were hurt. But my son’s life is at stake, and I must not fail him.”

Ronsard opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it again. But Quentin said, “What is it? Speak-we know each other too well to hold back.”

“As you say, my lord,” Ronsard began, then hesitated once more. “Sire, the words come hard.”

“They will come no easier for holding them.”

The stalwart knight turned his face away and said, “What will you do if we fail to regain the sword?”

“That I cannot say. If I thought riding with an armed force to the High Temple was the answer, I would have done it without delay. But I dare not risk the danger to my son, Ronsard. We must in all events try to recover the Shining One.” He paused, adding in a quiet voice, “Failing that, we must trust in the Most High to work his will. That is all any man can do.”

“How much longer?” Theido asked, sweat dripping from his forehead and running down his neck. Sir Garth looked back at him and shook his head sadly.

“No telling yet, my lord. Another few hours at least; likely more.” The brawny knight jerked his thumb over his shoulder to where men labored to cut through the iron bands of the portcullis with various implements.

“Put new men to the task, and spell them regularly from now on. We still have to fight once we are through the gate; I do not want the men exhausted before they must lift their swords.”

“It is the heat in this blasted tunnel,” said Garth, “It drains a man’s strength. We would have cut through long ago if not for that.”

Theido turned and walked to the barrier. For all their efforts, they had succeeded in removing only one section of the thick iron gate. A second section was nearly freed, but a third and a fourth most be cut away to ensure that an armed man could pass through quickly. There was nothing to be done but continue hacking away at the structure at the same maddening, stow pace.

Abruptly Theido left the chamber, passing back through the narrow tunnel to the cave mouth and the cool night beyond. The ping and chink of the workers’ tools echoed through the passageway as their chisels bit into the iron. Below the cave the soldiers whose services were not now required at the grate rested on the shingle beside the water. The moon had risen and shone sparkling on the dark river, illuminating the cliff and the castle walls above with a ghostly light

The soldiers glanced up as Theido made his way down to them. Progress? the glance asked. None, Theido’s look answered as he sat down among them.

One of the men, a knight by the name of Olin, leaned close to Theido and asked, “What will happen if we do not breach the grate? What will we do?”

“The grate will be breached,” Theido answered stiffly. “Yes, I know-eventually. But what if dawn comes first?” Theido turned cheerless eyes upon the man and replied, “Ronsard will attack at dawn. He has no other choice. With our help or without it, he will go against the walls.” Olin stared at Theido in silence. “You asked for the truth; I told you.”

“It is a hard truth, my lord. It is sure death to go against those walls. Catapults and rams-”

Theido cut him off. “We have no time for catapults to wear down the walls or rams to splinter the gates. No time.”

“Then if we fail here, we die.”

“Yes, and more. If we fail, the realm dies with us; the kingdom is in ruins.” Theido nodded slowly, gazing out over the smoothly flowing water. “You did not know so much was at stake?”

“No, my lord,” answered the knight. “I thought it was just to save the Prince.”

“The Prince, ourselves, our nation.”

Sir Olin said nothing more for a long time. Then, without another word, he rose to his feet and climbed back up the side of the cliff to the cave and went back to take his place at the portcullis with the other workmen.

Then, as Theido watched, one by one the others who had been resting, having just come out from the tunnel, got up and climbed back to the cave to pick up their tools once more.

As DAWN broke fair and clean in the east, the Dragon King raised his gauntleted hand and urged Blazer forward. The mighty warhorse jigged sideways and pranced, smelling the scent of battle in the air, feeling his bold blood race in his veins, eager to gallop with his master into the fray. Quentin, with Ronsard at his left hand, rode out onto the field, his armor glinting in the early light. He wore the battle dress made for him by the legendary Inchkeith, the armor he had worn against Nin the Destroyer on the day he had become King. Polished smooth, bright as water, the pale silver shimmered in the sun’s first rays, throwing beams of light from its clean, flat surfaces like the facets of a gemstone. On his head he wore the silver helm without a crest, except for the thin gold circlet of a crown that he had placed there on the day of his coronation. From his shoulders hung the exquisite cloak of chain mail, its tiny links rippling like quicksilver with every jouncing step.

Ronsard, too, was arrayed in his best armor, and rode beside his King with eyes ahead, visor up, surveying the formidable walls rising before them on the escarpment. His hand rested easily on the hilt of his sword; his shield hung down from the pommel of his saddle, ready to be snatched up in an instant when need occasioned. His battle steed shook its mane and pawed the earth as it pranced out into the morning.

Behind them came the King’s knights mounted on their chargers, their armor clinking in the silent dawn. No drums beat time; no trumpet sounded the call to arms. The army of the Dragon King would march unheralded into battle this day.

After the knights came the footmen with their pikes and ladders, and grappling hooks on long ropes to aid in scaling the walls. They wore short, heavy swords thrust through their belts, for in the close fighting on the battlements there would be no room to swing a longer blade; and any who were lucky enough to reach the heights of Castle Ameron would need a stout weapon.

The advancing forces reached the catapults, and teams of men ran out and began readying the machines, loading stones and fireballs into the slings. This done, the men waited for the King’s command. Quentin scanned the high ramparts, raised his sword-a sturdy blade which he had chosen from among others in the armorer’s wagon-and lowered it in a swift movement.

The catapults sang through the air and the footmen raced toward the walls with a mighty shout, flooding over the rising ground to the very feet of the enormous stone curtains. There they flung their ladders against the walls and sent their grappling hooks snaking through the air, while archers positioned themselves to offer what help they could.

At almost the same instant, a cry went up from the walls as Ameronis’s men leapt to the embrasures and began hailing arrows, stones, and timbers down upon the men below. The first men on the ladders fell screaming to the earth, but others appeared to take their places, and others behind them, each with a shield over his head to stop the deadly rain. But arrows found their marks, stones struck down with bone-shattering force, and brave soldiers fell.

As the attack began, Ameronis and his noble friends, sitting in the banqueting hall over their breakfast, heard the cry go up from his men on the battlements. Ameronis rose from his chair and said, grinning, “So, the King’s army has no patience, eh? It sounds as if they mean to tumble these walk with their wailing. Come, my friends, this will be rare sport. These walls have never been breached in living memory. Let us see how the Dragon King’s army fares.”