Stephen Lawhead - In the Hall of the Dragon King

“Then Jaspin hoped to win the day for himself without Nimrood?”

“So it is! But now he will be forced to acknowledge Nimrood as his master before all who call him king.”

“It is no better than he deserves,” observed Ronsard. “I believe he will yet rue the day he ever laid eyes upon that sorcerer.”

“This waiting is worse than the fighting. Is there nothing we can do?” asked Selric.

“Yes,” said Durwin. “Pray to the Most High. He is the only one who can save us now.”

The unseen blow caught Quentin as he rolled away, grazing his shoulder and lifting him off his feet. He was flung headlong into the darkness to land sprawling on the floor of the tomb.

He squirmed to his knees in an effort to rise, pulling himself along the edge of the stone bier. But before he could regain his feet he felt something pulling him back, dragging him down with a sinuous weight. Something hard grasped him by the waist. Quentin grabbed at it and touched a smooth, yet rigid surface undulating under his grasp.

A wave of horror and revulsion swept through him as he realized that he was locked in the crushing coils of a gigantic serpent.

A coil shot around his arms, binding them to his sides. Another loop wrapped itself across his chest, and Quentin, struggling feebly to free himself, saw the terrible angular head rise slowly up before his face.

Hideous yellow eyes burned with an unearthly light, regarding him with extreme menace. He could feel the coils tightening around him, squeezing the breath from his body.

His hands scrabbled for a hold on the heavy scales of the serpent’s skin; his nails raked the snaky armor ineffectually. Each breath was a labor fraught with pain now. Very soon he would suffocate. He heard the rasping hiss of the snake as it leered closer, showing cruel double rows of needle-like teeth and two great curving fangs.

Quentin’s mind raced in a frenzy verging on panic. There must be a weapon, he thought. Lifting his eyes, which felt as if they would burst from the pressure of the serpent’s ever-tightening embrace, he chanced to see the shimmer of the King’s sword lying at his side along the slab.

Quentin, growing weaker by the heartbeat, threw himself onto his side beneath the bier. The coils shifted momentarily as he went down. He gulped air and forced his arm free before the relentless coils squeezed again.

Slowly drawing his feet up under him, Quentin placed them against the stone trestle of the King’s bier. With a kick he sent himself tumbling heels over head as the serpent, hissing with a fury, struck.

Quentin heard the monstrous jaws snap shut just above his ear. But he had gained his objective. His free arm was now on top as he lay on his side. He raised it toward the sword.

The serpent noticed the movement. A lashing tail flicked out and lashed a coil around Quentin’s wrist and pulled it down in an iron grip.

In the shimmering glow of the blue radiance Quentin saw the awful outline of the black head rearing again, readying for the killing strike.

Forcing every fiber of muscle to obey, he lifted his hand once more. His fingers ached as he stretched them toward the sword. He felt the serpent squeezing his wrist; his fingers became numb. He closed his eyes and cried out with the effort, feeling that his heart would rend. Then he felt the edge of the bier under his grasp. He held on.

Inch by precious inch he clawed forward, his fingernails splitting as they tore against the stone. He could no longer breathe. His arm shook violently. Dizziness overwhelmed him, but he fought to remain clearheaded.

Then, miraculously, the sword was in his hand. He grasped the cold steel blade and pulled it down. But his strength was gone. He could not raise the sword or strike out with it. Instead, the honed blade lay in his benumbed hand, and he merely looked at it glinting in the darkness as he felt the black mists of death gathering over him.

He wanted to give up, to let go, to step into that peaceful calm that awaited him. He could hear a sound, like the rush of wind or a thousand voices calling out. He had an image of clouds heaving up and then parting. He was moving through the clouds, falling.

The clouds parted and he saw below him the battle lines on the plains of Askelon. There were his friends, dug in behind their ditch. He saw the charge and heard the clash of arms. Then the vision faded and he felt a warmth bathe his limbs as a deep sleepiness overtook him. He felt himself slipping away…

“No!” he shouted, jerking himself back from the brink. “No-o-o!” his voice echoed back to him from the vaulted walls of the tomb.

The sword lay limply in his slack hand. He grasped it and felt the steel cut into the flesh of his fingers. The pain sharpened his mind.

He swiveled his head and saw the serpent’s head weaving above him. The monster moved, rolling him over to deliver the death blow. Quentin drew the sword to his breast.

The serpent’s glowing eyes stared into his own, the black-forked tongue flickered as the wicked head descended. In the same instant Quentin raised the sword.

The head swung down. Quentin felt the sword suddenly wrenched from his hands. He heard a raging hiss and opened his eyes to see the sword sticking through the serpent’s mouth and out the back of its head. The monster had impaled itself upon the sword.

The coils loosened as the snake began to thrash upon the floor. In an instant Quentin had another arm free and then he was on his knees. He dragged himself aside as the serpent rolled into a seething ball to crush itself in its own coils. The creature writhed and squirmed as its movements grew more and more erratic.

At last, with one final terrible convulsion, the serpent lay still.

Quentin knelt, hands on the cold stone, dragging the cool air into his lungs in racking gulps. He heard a queer bubbling sizzle and glanced up to see the monstrous creature begin to shrivel and wriggle, melting together. Quentin stared. Green smoke issued from its body, covered it, and then it was gone. A trailing tendril of smoke curled up where the awful serpent had lain. And then that too vanished.

Quentin rested panting at the edge of the bier and allowed life to return. His ribs ached and his hand, where he had gripped the sword, stung. He looked down to see blood dripping from his fingers. He drew a long, shaky breath and turned toward the King. The eerie, blue radiance which had surrounded his body was gone-as if whatever life force had clung to the remnant had been extinguished.

A pang of grief stabbed through his heart, for it appeared to him that now, beyond all doubt, the King lay dead. No breath stirred the great chest. No presence remained.

Quentin turned to go. There was nothing to be done.

But to have found him and then to leave seemed to Quentin grievously inappropriate.

Quentin bowed his head and offered up a prayer. “Father of Life,” he prayed, using Toli’s name for the god, “return the life of our King.” He thought for a moment and added, “Raise up a champion to lead us in victory over our enemies…” He stopped then because he could think of nothing more to say.

He stepped close to the King’s body and reached out to touch the cold, lifeless face. As he extended his hand, a drop of blood fell from his fingertip and splashed onto the King’s lip.

He stared at the crimson splotch.

In the faint light from the tomb’s entrance he imagined he saw color seeping out from the drop of blood, spreading over the features of the King. He stared transfixed as a wondrous change occurred.

The King’s stiff features softened; the cold, gray flesh warmed and took on the appearance of life. Quentin watched, not daring to move, not daring to blink or look away. He saw color return to the Lifeless hands crossed upon his breast. He saw the tiny beat of a pulse appear just below the jaw.