Stephen Lawhead: In the Hall of the Dragon King

“The hermit speaks the truth,” said Theido. “But now we must make plans to deliver your message. The outlaws will be the least of our worries.”

Theido and Quentin left the hermit’s cottage about midday as a light snow of fitful flakes drifted down to lose themselves in the whiteness already deep upon the ground. Durwin remained behind to tend to his usual affairs saying, “I shall be waiting with hot soup and a cold drink when you return; I would only slow you down otherwise.” As they led their horses back along the narrow track to the road they heard his voice loud in the winter stillness calling, “The god go with you, and keep you, and speed your safe return.”

“Who is the god Durwin serves?” Quentin asked after they had ridden several minutes in silence, each lost to his own thoughts.

Theido seemed to consider this question and answered at length, “I do not know that Durwin has ever spoken his name-it may be that he does not have one.”

A nameless god? The thought occupied Quentin for a long time.

They rode through the forest, a dense, old tangle of ancient oaks that wove huge branches overhead in a stark, intertwining canopy of bare limbs. Here and there a stand of finger-thin pines shot upward through the spreading branches of the oaks to find the light above.

The horses moved easily through the snow which had not drifted to any depth upon the forest floor. Theido rode ahead on his quick, brown palfrey and Quentin, astride the mighty Balder, followed not far behind at his right shoulder. Quentin listened to the forest sounds: snow sliding off the branches of trees with a soft plop, the creak of a bough shifting in the cold, a lone bird call sharp and distinct in the distance. Even the quiet was full of sounds when one listened.

“Do you think we will meet with any outlaws?” Quentin asked after a while, remembering what had been said earlier.

“We should hope that we meet nothing but the trees and the snow. But there are some outlaws here who are more honest than you or I, men driven to the refuge of the forest by Prince Jaspin and his thieving rascals.” This was spoken with a quiet defiance which Quentin could easily apprehend. However, there was something else in the dark man’s tone that he could not guess. “If we chance upon anyone in this wood pray that he serves no lord but the Dragon King,” Theido continued. “I am not without reputation among such men.”

“Perhaps the snow will keep them inside today,” Quentin observed. Yet, even as he spoke the clouds overhead showed signs of scattering. The last few flakes drifted down slowly.

“Yes, perhaps. Although, a traveler is a welcome sight these days. Many who once traveled abroad on business have taken to hiring armed escorts, or banding together in the hope that numbers alone will daunt the robbers. Most avoid the forest altogether, and those lucky enough to pass unharmed are nonetheless marked well. You, my young friend, were very lucky to have escaped notice thus far. Were you not afraid?”

“I did not know they had become such a serious problem-these robbers.”

“News does not travel to the mountaintop, eh? The gods and their servants care not what takes place in the world of men?” he laughed strangely. “Mensandor is besieged by trouble; once-honest men turn upon one another; innocent blood is shed by day. These are grave times.”

“I had not heard…” replied Quentin, as if to defend himself. Although from what he did not know.

“I suppose not. Maybe it is better that way-innocence is a gift. Who knows, you might never have volunteered for such an errand if you had known what lay ahead.”

At last, with only an hour of daylight left, the forest began to dwindle, becoming more sparse and open. Then quite unexpectedly the two riders were free of it. And there, across a broad valley cut through by a deep, narrow stream, rose the soaring battlements of Askelon.

The King’s stronghold sat upon the crown of a hill glittering in the fading light. Its tall towers commanded a view clear to the horizon and could in turn be seen for miles in every direction. With the crimson evening light behind it, the mighty fortress loomed dark and menacing, itself a fantastic dragon curled upon its stone couch. Quentin shivered in his saddle. Long had he dreamed of this sight; now he was seeing it.

“They say this castle is the oldest thing upon the land made by men,” said Theido. “Of all the ancient wonders only Askelon survives. King Celbercor, when he came to this country, laid the cornerstone himself. It was not finished until a thousand years later. It will house fifty thousand fighting men, and horses for half that number; there is not another fortress made by man that is its equal. It has weathered siege upon siege and war upon war. Those walls stood when our father’s fathers were babes, and they will stand when we are dust in our graves.”

“Has it never been conquered?”

“Never, at least not from without, not by force. But intrigue-the fighting within-has laid many a king low. Even those great walls cannot stop deceit.”

The two descended the gentle slope of the hill and splashed quickly across the stream. Already the last light of day failed them. But lights were twinkling in the village that crowded close beneath Askelon’s protective ramparts. As they moved closer the great dark shape above them became lost to the night, a mountain vanishing behind a shadow. The lights showing rosey from the windows drawing nearer with every step threw warm light upon the snow. Quentin heard voices from within the houses they passed, and occasionally the yeasty smell of hot bread would meet his nostrils or the tang of meat basted over an open hearth fire. Suddenly he felt very tired and hungry.

“Will we go to the Queen directly?”

“No, I think not. Tomorrow will be soon enough. I want to find out how things sit at court these days. It has been some time since I was here.” He paused, reining up his horse so that Quentin could draw abreast of him. He spoke in a lowered tone, “Tonight, you are my nephew-if anyone should be curious. Speak only if spoken to, and say nothing about the Queen or the King to anyone at all. Watch me at all times, do you understand?”

Quentin nodded quickly. “All right, then,” continued Theido in a more relaxed voice, “How about some supper?”

Quentin glanced up and saw that they had stopped outside an inn of some size. A weathered sign hung over the door which bid travelers welcome, and it sported the painted likeness of someone or something Quentin could not quite make out.

As they dismounted, the door burst open and a short man in a short tunic and pantaloons with a white cloth wrapped around his bulging middle came bustling forward. “Welcome! Welcome!” the man chirped. “Supper is just being laid. If you hurry you may yet find places at the board! Quickly now! Never mind, I’ll take care of your horses.”

“Very kind of you, Milcher,” said Theido with a chuckle. “You’re as blind as ever-you don’t even know who it is you’re dragging in out of the night. Nor do you care!”

“Who is that? Is that Theido?” The man came closer and peered into the tall traveler’s face. “Yes, of course. I knew it was you. Recognized your voice. Come in, come in. Too cold out here to be wagging the tongue. In with you! In with you both!” He took the reins from their hands and led the horses away behind the large, rambling structure. “Hurry now, supper is just being laid!” he called out as he disappeared around the corner.

Theido and Quentin stepped up to the entrance and as Theido shoved open the broad door he placed a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. “Remember what I told you.” He laid a long finger to his lips. Quentin nodded with a furtive smile.