Stephen Lawhead - In the Hall of the Dragon King

Steadying his quivering nerves, Quentin stepped cautiously down onto the step and then the next. The steps fell away sharply, and Quentin soon found himself in complete darkness, except for the patch of light through the hole where he had fallen. He thrust his hands out in front of him and continued.

The stairs stopped after only a few more steps and Quentin, his eyes becoming used to the darkness now, perceived a stone door barring the entrance to the subterranean chamber. The door, black with age, was carved with the intricate designs and runes of the ancients. Yet, from chips and scratches which showed white in the dim light along the left side of the narrow slab, he could see that someone had used tools to pry open the tomb’s door, and not so very long ago.

Quentin placed his palms on the cool moist rock and pushed. Unexpectedly, the door moved with very little effort, grinding open on its unseen hinges. He stepped into the tomb.

The interior of the tomb was cool and silent. In the feeble light of the open door, Quentin saw the glint of gold and silver vessels stacked along the walls. The dust of time lay thick upon the floor, dimming the colored mosaic tiles which there proclaimed in quaint pictures the exploits of the deceased monarch. A row of silver-tipped spears and bearskin shields-now moldering to ashes-stood in ranks to his left. A saddle, with a horse’s bard and chaffron supported by crossed lances, stood on his right.

Whatever else lay in the ancient burial vault Quentin never discovered. For his eyes found the stone table standing in the center of the chamber. And there, still and serene, as if in peaceful slumber, lay King Eskevar, his form bathed in an eerie blue luminescence.

Though Quentin had never seen his King, he knew in his heart he had found him, for it could be no one else. The bearded chin jutted up defiantly; the smooth, high brow suggested wisdom; the deep-set eyes, closed in repose, spoke of character; and the straight firm mouth of royalty.

Quentin, in a daze of wondrous disbelief, slowly approached the stone bier as one walking in a dream. The figure before him, dressed in shining armor, its arms folded across its unmoving chest, appeared the picture of death itself. And yet…

Quentin, holding his breath, stepped closer, daring not to breathe for fear that the vision before him might prove too insubstantial.

One step and then another and he would be there.

With a trembling foot he took the step. Shifting his weight, he raised his foot…

Something moved behind him. He felt the air rush by him, heard a metallic whisper, and caught the flash of two glowing points of yellow light arcing through the air as he instinctively turned to meet the blow and then he was struck down.

THE BATTLEFIELD had grown as quiet as the dead men upon it. A hush crept over the plain which still echoed with the ring of steel and the cries of warriors. The carrion birds soared above, searching for an opportunity to begin their gruesome feast; their cries pierced the silence which now covered Askelon Plain like a shroud.

In respite from battle, the wounded had been carried from the field and taken to the river where Selric’s surgeons offered what aid and comfort could be given. Those still able to bear sword or pike were bandaged and returned to the ditch to await the next onslaught.

Durwin, arms bared and robes drawn up between his legs and tucked in his belt, hurried among the litters to aid with word or skill as many as he could. Wherever he went the pain was eased and healing begun. Those who could not recover were comforted and their passage to the next world lighted with hope.

As he bent over the unconscious form of a soldier lying on a grassy riverbank, Durwin felt a tug at his belt. He turned away from his patient to see a young man, sweaty and besmeared with blood, motioning him away.

“What is it, lad?” asked the hermit.

“A knight yonder would see you, sir,” replied the young physician.

“Then take me to him,” replied Durwin, and they both hurried off through the ranks of wounded lying along the bank.

“Here is the holy hermit, sir. I have brought him as you bade me.” The boy bent close to the knight’s ear. Durwin, thinking that he had come too late, for so it appeared, was surprised to see the knight awaken and the clear blue eyes regard him knowingly.

“They tell me I must die,” said the knight. He was a young man, not yet beyond his twentieth year. “What say you?”

Durwin bent to examine the wound, an ugly, jagged slash in his side where an axe had sliced through his hauberk and driven pieces of his mail deep into his flesh. He shook his head slowly.

“Yes, ‘tis true. The wound is mortal, brave friend. How may I help you?”

“It is as I feared,” said the knight. His voice was growing weaker. “I have watched you going among the wounded and have seen you comfort men in screaming agony and calm those who have no hope.”

“I do what I can,” said Durwin softly.

“Then tell me what I must know of death, for I am not a religious man. It is said that you can look into the world beyond, sir. Look for me and tell me what you see.”

Durwin, though he already knew what he would tell the young knight, bowed his head and closed his eyes as he placed one hand over the knight’s heart. After a moment he began to speak.

“I see two paths that may be taken-one into darkness and one into light. The dark path is an unhappy one. There is no peace to be found wherever it does lead, and those who travel thereon never find rest or comfort for their soul’s pain. It is a lonely, bitter road.”

“The other way, the road of light, leads to a magnificent city wherein all who come rejoice in the presence of a loving king who reigns forever without end. It is a realm of peace where hardship and death are conquered, and none who abide there know fear anymore.”

“These two paths are open to you, but you must choose now which one you will tread.”

“The choice is easily made, good hermit. I would go to the great city and there pledge my service to the honorable king. If he has need of men such as I, there would I be. But I know not how this may be accomplished, and fear I may yet go wrong.”

“Do not be afraid. Only believe and it will be so. Believe in the king, the King of all kings, and God Most High. He will meet you on the path and lead you himself into his city.”

“Sir, I do want to believe. But your words are strange. They are unlike any words I have ever heard a priest speak. Are you a priest?”

“Yes, fair friend. I am a priest of the king I have told you about. He turns none aside who would come to him; it is a promise he makes to all men.”

“Then I go to him at once.” The knight’s voice was a whisper. “Thank you, good hermit. I shall remember this kindness and shall greet your King for you. Farewell.”

“Farewell, brave sir. We shall meet again.”

At these words the knight closed his eyes and breathed his last. Durwin stood over the young man’s body and marveled at his courage and the firmness of his faith. “The Most High has won a faithful servant this day,” he said to himself. “And none more valiant.”

When Durwin had done all he could for the wounded and dying he returned to the ditch where Selric, Theido, and Ronsard stood in council.

“We have lost many good men,” said Ronsard. “We cannot withstand another attack if they choose to make an end of it.”

“Why do they wait?” wondered Selric. “Perhaps they will not challenge us again.”

“No,” said Theido. “They will come again. They are waiting for-”

“Waiting for Nimrood to bring his foul brood,” said Durwin as he joined them. “They have not yet come. But they are close by.”